


Blank

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Dystopian, Alternate Universe- future, Because Everyone Loves Those, Doll! John, Dollhouse AU, M/M, Shadow Corporations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 61,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a Blank- someone whose mind is perfectly programmable. He is the ninth one, and his unremembered track record is nearly flawless. Then he's given a new DataPack and sent to an Invite Only party on another job. This same gathering is secured by Sherlock Holmes, who immediately recognizes John as an unknown variable. What follows is a long game of cat and mouse with an enemy no one really knows.</p><p>UPDATE 3.28.16: As of today, this an every other work/series of mine is on semi/full hiatus. Updates will be sporadic at best and nonexistent at worse. They are not abandoned. I'm just working on too much stuff right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DP 1.0: Dominic Sanders

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! Let me know if there's anything in this 'verse that doesn't make sense, okay?

JOHN

 

    Wake up. He does, eyes going from closed to open in a moment. He sits up, swings his legs down, and that’s that. He just waits. He doesn’t know why he should wake up, but he knows that he’s supposed to. That’s a good enough reason.

    The bed he’s sitting on is really just a metal four by six slab, attached to the wall at fore and aft with chains. There’s a thin-as-a-mother-fucker mattress that they don’t let him keep during the day. He’s learned to not need it at night. Other than that, his room is bare.

    Metal walls are the backbone of continuous white- walls, ceiling, floor, all white, and not a crack anywhere in sight. In a few moments, John knows that the black lines will appear in the same shape and space they have always appeared. He knows that this door will swing inward, inviting John to exit the room- only on orders, though.

    Sure enough, there are the lines, the movement, and the soldier on the other side of it. He’s got blond hair, and dark eyes. He’s taller than John, and looks, like everyone else, sickly in this light. Not that sickly, though. They never turn the lights off, John’s noticed. It’s why he sleeps and wakes on elapsed time- sleep eight hours. Sleep two hours. Sleep until someone comes for you- instead of using actual markers- 8:30. John has no sense of the latter down here, anyways.

    “Come on.” The soldier says. John stands and follows him. They go and go through white bleached walls with nary a blemish until they step into somewhere with softer lighting and color. The room is large and square, with a grey bumpy floor that feels like unforgiving rubber. Dark green locker banks line the room- they are full sized. Tan benches with grey triangular legs- bolted to the floor- sit five feet away from the lockers, three per wall, with a four foot gap between each.

    “Go,” the soldier says, and John goes. Like a good soldier, he moves beneath the fluorescent lighting to locker No. 9 and opens it up, twisting the combination lock as though he does it every day- 29-3-30. The locker clicks open on the first shot- as always- and John pulls out a set of neatly folded clothing from the top of the locker.

He strips. The jumpsuit he takes off is white and it has B-0-9 in large black letters across the shoulders and a smaller version on the front, above his right lung. He folds it neatly and sets it on the bench before he slips on the pants, the slacks, the undershirt and turtleneck. He dons the socks and the loafers as well as the silver band on his right index finger and a small cross on a silver chain over his head. He picks up his jumpsuit and puts it into the top of the locker. Then he closes it and walks back to the soldier, waiting.

The man hands him a black leather satchel, which John mechanically puts on. Then he follows the soldier out of the locker room, down the hall, and into another wing of the place where they keep John and the locker rooms. This one is still white- sickeningly so- but you can see where one tile ends and another begins. It’s less blank.

They reach a room where another man who is of higher rank than the soldier brought to him is waiting. They speak while John stands there.

“Good evening, sir,” The soldier who brought him here says.

“Moran. How’s he doing?”

“No signs, sir.” The man nods and turns away.

“Go lay in the chair.” The order is addressed to John, who does. He lets another man with a white lab coat fit a helmet over his head. He lets the man’s latex covered cloves smooth a hand down his shoulder. He feels the familiar prick in the back of his skull. He feels the light growing at the edges of his vision. He feels himself- his mind, really. His body doesn’t move, but it feels like he’s now aware. It’s as though he isn’t quite a robot anymore.

“B-0-9.”

“Present.” John says, because that’s what feels right. He’s not at all used to doing what he wants to do, so “right” here is less right and more noninflammatory.

“What’s your given name?”

“B-0-9.”

“What’s your previous given name?”

“John Watson.”

“What age did you die?”

“Eight.”

“When did you die?”

“January the Eight, 2096.”

“Are you going to correct that?”

“No.”

“Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“B-0-9.”

“You are wrong.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“B-0-9.”

“Very good.”

“...”

“Ok, B-0-9. Good job. I’m going to start the machine up,” says the voice in his ear, “and it’s going to feel weird for a second. After that, it’s going to feel good. When I’m done, you’ll be different. You will have a new, more complex set of parameters. If you don’t understand them, let me know, and we’ll correct them.”

“...”

“Answer me, B-0-9.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good.”

“...”

“Five… four… three… two… one…” A sharp, invasive pain explods in the back of John’s head. Then he feels like he's being hugged.

“Starting data upload.” He relaxes into the hug, despite the fact that he has just been injured.

“10%. 20. 30. 40. 50. 60. 70. 80. 90. 100%. Data upload complete. Checking effectiveness.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dominic Sanders.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty five.”

“How did you make your fortune?”

“Weapons patents.”

“What’s your mother’s name?”

"Hannah Sanders."

“How old is she?”

“Deceased.”

“How?”

“Cancer.”

“How many siblings do you have?”

“I don’t.”

“Effectiveness complete. Okay, Dominic. You’ll feel a little weird again, but only for a moment. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Three… two… one…” Dominic feels another sharp pain. Then the dark rushes in to catch him.

 


	2. Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, having no cases, agrees to do security for a party in order to distract himself. Then he sees John. Oh, and there's Irene. That, too.

SHERLOCK

 

Sometimes it’s alright being Mycroft’s brother. Sometimes it’s not. Right now, though, it’s not bad, because he has a case for Sherlock. Not a terribly interesting case, mind you, but there are enough things Sherlock will have to do simultaneously that he doesn’t need it to be interesting to distract him.

It’s not even a case, really. It’s more like, rich people are getting together, one is supposed to die, and Sherlock is supposed to figure out who it is by watching every part of every moment and keeping track of more than two hundred potential targets, all while looking for a killer he’s never seen before.

He’s standing in a big, circular room. The large screens on the wall in front of him watch the gathering from different points of view.

The scene is almost peaceful. Men in suits and women in dresses talk in quiet groups at the edges of the room where the tables are. The slow, lovely music played by the band lays down the pattern for a slow dance in the vanilla colored ballroom. The walls are a dark, old victorian pattern that’s offset by silk drapes drawn back from huge glass windows.

Wait staff in traditional dress weave in and out of the groups, bringing food to the buffet table and drinks in tall, delicate champagne glasses. The color matches the floor and drapes and the table cloths, too. Dark wood moulding matches the banisters of the staircase and upper levels. The soft lighting is the final touch in the almost romantic scene. Sherlock is ridiculously happy he’s not out there, though. He’d kill someone. Discreetly.

His eyes flick over the large screens, fingers on the pad in front of him, manipulating the view, picking out known trouble makers and such. Mrs. Adler is here. Huh. He didn’t think a dominatrix would actually show up. Part of her power is never really being there- a wisp of a reminder until you forget.

She dances with one of her more guilt ridden clients, a smirk on her face. It looks like her reputation must have been diminishing. Sherlock does his best to memorize every face and enter it into his database.

Every now and then, his long fingers move across the tablet and the cameras pan, zoom, or change scenes entirely. It’s not interesting, this, but with so many people to watch and so many variables to account for, it’s enough to stop his mind from scratching at him. It’s enough to make him not feel the call of heroine.

He hasn’t had a fix in a few weeks, so he feels like crap as it is. He does, in fact, need this. He will until Lestrade has a case for him. It had better be a good case. His eyes flick over the faces, analyzing who’s here and who has yet to show up. Then he stops.

With a flick of his hand the camera transmitting to the central screen has changed images and zoomed in on a face. Oh, he hasn’t seen that one before. In fact, he’s willing to bet that this one- Dominic? it takes him a moment to remember- is going to be the main attraction. He feels like he needs to meet this Mr. Sanders, weapons extraordinair and primary stockholder of Sanders and Sons, which was originally launched using the patents of Dominic Sanders II (the Sanders in Sanders and Sons). It’s a very good alibi, but to someone like Sherlock, all lies rest in the outermost covering of a person, scarcely hidden, brough to life with a single, misplaced- or, well-placed- phrase.

Sherlock cocks his head, memorizing that untanned face. It’s as though he really has spent night after night in a lab somewhere, inventing things. Sherlock glances down at himself and decides that what he’s wearing won’t work. He should probably wear a stud, too. Yes, that would be good.

“Lestrade.” The Inspector looks up. Oh, so he’s found one.

“Yeah.”

“Take over.” Sherlock hands off the tablet and walks to the back of the room. He brought a suit with him in case he needs to be out on the floor. He goes to his relatively large bag and pulls it out. A waistcoat and a suit jacket later, Sherlock is in one of Mycroft’s black limousines, feeling his right ear and then slipping in a plain, pyramidal, black, metal stud and sliding the clasp in place on the other side.

The car pulls up outside of the mansion. Sherlock slips out without a word, his imperious voice and attitude working to make him what his invitation says he is: William Sharlotte- heir to daddy’s fortune and avid inventor himself. He’s just the man to hang with Dominic Sanders, this evening.

 

…

 

Sally glances at the screens, looks back down at her computer and glances up again.

“Is that Sherlock?”

“Yep,” Lestrade says, continuing to pan across the room while keeping the central screen trained on Dominic Sanders.

“What’s he doing there? I thought he was monitoring from HERE.”

“He was, until someone peaked his interest.” Sherlock’s moving effortlessly among the guests on screen, looking suave- more smooth operator than Sally cared to admit.

“Why can’t he do that all the time?” Anderson complains. Sally gets where he’s coming from- not a single insulted person, but he does it all the time to the two of them.

“Can we get audio?” Sally asks. Lestrade presses a button.

“-and we are pushing for new developments in our weapons tech department. We need them to keep up with our foreign relations.” Someone who managed to waylay Sherlock says. Sherlock’s mouth turns up in a slight smile.

“Weapons to compete with demanding people. Aren’t we all in the same situation.” The man laughs.

“Geez, William,” the man’s hand parks itself on Sherlock’s arm, and here people have been saying that you’re a humorless prat.” Sherlock shows teeth in his smile, this time around. Sally glances at Anderson.

“Hmm. Some people believe it to be true,” Sherlock drawls. He glances up and meets Irene’s gaze. He should probably find out why she’s here, anyways. Besides, he needs to socialize so that it doesn’t look as though he’s shooting directly for the one suspicious person here (well, not the one, but he’s certainly the Person of Interest of the hour).

“If you’ll excuse me,” Sherlock says, making his way over to Irene Adler, looking for all the world like he’s chasing the Dominatrix down. Damn good liar, that one. As the yard watches from a building down the street Irene and Sherlock make their way to the dance floor, striking up a lively waltz.

“I heard you were back in town.”

“Did you, now?” Sherlock says quietly, tone of voice so dry that Irene immediately knows that she has no chance of slipping past his defences.

“Yes.”

“You know what I heard?” Sherlock asks quietly after a moment. The music fades into the background as the two of them dance a mental dance as well.

“Plenty of things, I’m sure.” Sherlock leans just the slightest bit closer.

“I heard you blackmailed that fellow you were dancing with earlier.”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“No. What do they say?” They’ve entered the last quarter of the dance, now.

“Not everything you hear is true.” Sherlock smirks, because really?

“Yes. Just the bad stuff.” He times it so that the last strains of music sigh softly out of existence just as he reaches the end of his sentence. He takes a step back and gives a short, respectful bow.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Sherlock turns to meander, making it no secret that he’s merely here to enjoy himself, maybe rub a few elbows.

It isn’t until even Anderson has grown bored of watching Sherlock lie that the detective finally makes his way to Dominic Sanders.

“Good evening,” Sherlock says.

“I suppose,” comes the rueful reply. Sherlock offers his hand like a true gentleman.

“My name is William Sharlotte, but you can call me Will,” he says. Sanders smiles back at him and opens his mouth.

 

 


	3. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a surprise ending.

“It’s a pleasure,” the smooth facade is back in place, “Sanders, by the way. Dominic Sanders.” They shake hands, Sherlock’s long and capable fingers feeling gun calluses on Dominic’s hands, as though he’s more than what he sells himself as.

“So then, do you come to these things often?” Sanders asks, his DataPack telling him that small talk is a go-to for parties.

“Mm, no. I’m busy, usually.” A lie, really. Sherlock is almost always bored.

“Heh. Sure enough.” The statement’s ambiguous enough that Sherlock would be hard pressed to find offense. Nice. This is some really deep programming. Sherlock takes a long look at Dominic as the blond watches the room from the upper level, hip on the bannister, gaze directed to the dancers below them. God, he looks sexy in this light and that suit, Sherlock thinks.

He puts the thought on the burner waaaaaaaaay back there and takes his chance to examine Dominic.  His programming isn’t easily recognizable, since he has things like small talks planned into him, but Sherlock’s willing to bet he has no nervous tics or sense of panic- just parameters.

His mannerisms are just cocky enough to give away his always-been-rich upbringing but shy enough that the money’s kept him isolated. It casts him as slightly uncomfortable at this large and self-important party; a personality to go with his rueful statements.

His skin is pale, like he spends more time in a lab than out of it, but his jaw’s a strong one, matching his hands and the set of his shoulders, as though he could pop you in the mouth if you disrespected him. The soft lighting of the room makes him look a little tan and a great deal softer in his coal black tuxedo.

His eyes shine dark, and his thin lips quirk upwards in a slightly self deprecating way. Wow, this is some expensive programming. they must have programmed memories and let the personality develope on its own, rather than controlling the personality, which would have made the memories tricky, or both, which has way too many complications to pull off successfully.

Sherlock makes small talk for an hour before quietly finding his way to a vantage point. He reaches up and squeezes one of his piercings.

“Lestrade.”

“Here.”

“Be ready to move in on Dominic Sanders. Be careful. He probably has panic protocols programmed in.”

“Is he the killer?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I need him alive.”

As the evening goes on Sherlock waits, while Lestrade’s team moves in. Unfortunately, Dominic apparently has a measure of base intelligence underneath that programming, because he manages to evade the teams Lestrade sends in after him. Sherlock gives chase where the others lose the trail, jetting off in his fancy car which is actually modified to save him from various things like bullets and any explosion not directly inside the car.

As a warning goes out over the radio that instructs every car to pull over, engines roar in approval and ecstasy as Sherlock and Dominic push each faster and faster in a race to capture and evade.

Finally, Dominic leaves the highway, jetting along back roads that twist and turn. Drag racing. Nice. Sherlock thinks as he follows suit. He makes the turns at record speed (for him) and loses no distance once the two of them leave the traitorous and get back to a straight path. In an incredible show of skill, the back window of Dominic’s car rolls down, and something hits the road. sherlock is too close to avoid it. The wheels on the left side of the car hit it, and then the world is spinning, spinning, crashing, screaming, wailing, intrusive, mean, populated, empty, dark.

…

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he bolts upright. The monitor beeping out his heart rate speeds up to double the pace and faster still as Sherlock takes in the whitewhitewhite of the roombedwallsfloorceiling god why is it so-

“Sherlock!” hands on his shoulders prompt him to stay still but he never stays still it’s outside of his skill set so Sherlock fightsswearspuncheswrestleshurtshurtshurts and then he recognizes Mycroft’s face above him, nose a bit bloody, lip definitely so.

Sherlock sits back and casts his eyes up to the ceiling. White. Sooooo bloody white. He feels Mycroft doing something to his arm, which hurts, when the door slams open and an orderly charges in. He’s a big, burly son of a bitch and Sherlock sits back up and snarls at him: a dare.

“He’s fine. Thank you.”

“Not according to his monitor, he’s not,” the burly orderly says. But he looks at Sherlock, clearly calmer than he was a moment ago, and simply goes about fixing what had been set askew. When the orderly- Sherlock realizes he’s actually a nurse- finishes what he’s been doing, he casts a glance at a very tense and very much awake Sherlock Holmes.

“Do you know where you’ve been?” Some remember, some don’t. Of course he does- no he doesn’t. Sherlock looks down at his hands and realized he’s clenched them. He has no idea where he’s been.

“Drag racing. You crashed near a beach.” Oh. Why had he been drag- oooooooh. Sherlock smiles. Finally a real challenge.

“Where are my clothes?” He says, eyes now fully taking his surroundings in. Mycroft lays a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looks up at him.

“Sherlock.”

“I’m leaving here.”

“Not until morning.” With that, Mycroft strides out of the room, long legs carrying away Sherlock’s ticket. Oh. He must have really fucked something up, then.

“Son of a bitch.”

“I know what you mean.” The nurse says simply as he checks Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock groans, lays back, and throws a hand over his eyes. He is not submitting to a check up. The nurse looks at him.

“You do know that I can recommend you staying longer, right?” Shit. Fuck it. Fuck Mycroft. Fuck it all, Sherlock thinks as this nosy bastard pokes at him. Fuck it all. He can do this. He can stay the night. Get some sleep. Maybe feed himself. After all, he just found the most wondrous of distractions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, I haven't gotten any comments lately, so, I have no idea what you guys think. If you could let me know if it's good? bad?


	4. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John each go on after the dance.

He’s out of the hospital, finally, and back on his game. Three foiled assassination attempts later and Sherlock is bored out of his skull. He decides he’s going to find Dominic. He pulls out his tablet (it’s the size of one of those mobile before they weren’t needed anymore and it’s covered in what feels like smooth, highly tractioned rubber) and goes upstairs to the empty room. He holds it. He touches the middle of it and a question pops up to hover a few inches above the tablet.

Activate Tablet?

Sherlock pushes the yes button and the question is replaced by a countdown. **5..4..3...2...1… activating… 30%. 57%. 90%. Tablet activated. Sweeping for bugs… sweeping for viruses… sweeping for spyware… sweeping for updates… sweeping for Mycroft… Startup complete. No anomalies found. Continue?** Again, Sherlock presses the yes button, and the question disappears.

A moment later, a square of glowing 1’ by 1.5’ materializes in front of Sherlock. He takes the screen and presses it flat. Then, he places a hand in the center and moves it to the center of the room. He presses the image of a violet in the bottom left hand corner and the menu bar comes up. He follows the familiar sequence of **menu > all programs> settings> display> master display> 3D display> alter master display?> yes> altering display… display altered> effect change?> no> further options> delay change> change delayed.**

He backtracks to the settings window and this time goes **master display > alter display dimensions> match polygonal space?> yes> scanning… scanning. A blue light washes over Sherlock and the entire empty room. Space scanned. Polygonal space found. Anomalies found. Define anomalies> anomaly defined as User> anomaly defined as boundary> anomaly defined as boundary> anomaly defined as boundary> anomaly defined as boundary> anomalies defined> dimensions altered> effect change?> No.> further options> delay change?> yes> change delayed.**

Finally Sherlock finishes his alterations with **master display > master display changes> delayed changes> use delayed changes?> yes> check all that apply> check altered dimensions> check 3D display> are you sure you want to enact changes?> yes> changes enacting… changes enacting… changes enacting…**

The screen goes blank… and then the world explodes in purple and black as the flat, 2D screen Sherlock was working from switches to a 3D workshop for him. Sherlock snaps his fingers. Another menu pops up. From there, he opens up the uCreator and begins assembling a folder for Dominic Sanders. He starts with submitting a photo to the import scanner and filling in everything he knows about Dominic’s dimensions so the tablet can create a 3D model for Sherlock to work with he scrawls different characteristics in the air and sends them to float around the model. That done, he moves on to the next bit.

Then he downloads every bit of footage and picks out Dominic’s face and sets up parameters for his tablet to search for this face everywhere. After that, he sets the program parameters so that it will look for every single symbol everywhere and amass a pile of data.

He works on a cold case Lestrade gave him while his tablet sifts through thousands of video clips and pictures, building a virtual man while Sherlock works on a dead one. Hours later, Sherlock realizes that he’s dizzy. He should probably sleep. Yes. That’s a good idea. He snaps his fingers and the menu appears in front of him once more. He clicks through the commands to send the tablet into both sleep and lock mode so that the tablet will deny access unless Sherlock is the one to unlock it but at the same time the background programs set to look for Dominic goes on.

Tired, now, he gets himself downstairs and into bed. That… was satisfying. It was definitely satisfying. Sleep washes over him even as he slides his tablet under the blankets.

JOHN

“This way, Dominic.” They take him through bright rooms and tell him to sit on a table until otherwise directed. There’s a soldier standing beside him, guarding him. They sit in silence until a woman with a white lab coat comes in and speaks to the soldier. The big man turns to John and tells him to strip. John does, letting the woman check him over before he’s given a jumpsuit and taken back to the room with the chair. More people are there.

The soldier tells him to go and lay in the chair. He does, and then a voice in his ear is there as a helmet is drawn down over his head.

“Are you there, Dominic?”

“Yes.”

“What happened tonight?”

“I did as my parameters directed and waited until the target was in sight. I began to follow when William Sharlotte stopped me. We spoke for a time, and, as I am obliged to maintain cover, I lost track of the target. I had tracked the target again on a balcony when soldiers burst in and flooded the dance. They seemed to be aiming for me. I made my escape in my car but was followed by William Sharlotte. He chased me until we neared the beach when I dropped the bolt from the left side of my car and William Sharlotte’s car flipped. He crashed before we reached the beach but slid to a stop on the sand. I kept going.

“I reached the safe house and reported back. I was blindfolded and led to an enclosure, where I was directed to sit. Then I was taken to a room where they directed me to strip. Once I had done so and the doctor had checked me over, I was given a jumpsuit and brought here.”

“Okay, Dominic, thank you. Now, I want you to sit very still. You’re going to feel weird, then good. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Dominic feels the stab in the back of his skull and then the hug. He relaxes back. Over the comms, he hears: “ _Extracting data. 10%. 20%. 30%. 40%. 50%. 60%. 70%. 80% 90%. 100%. Data extracted. Commencing check_.”

“ _What’s your name_?”

“B-09.”

“ _Okay, B-09. How are you_?”

“Irrelevant.”

“ _Do you have family_?”

“Irrelevant.”

“ _Good. Check complete. Data recovery successful. Shutting down."_ B-09 feels the sharp stab, and then the helmet’s being taken off, and he follows the soldier back through the hallways until he’s deposited at the doorway to his room. The doorway opens.

“Go and sleep for eight hours.” The soldier says. B-09 goes and lays down. He closes his eyes against the bright light as the cracks in the wall disappear and all he’s left with is an order. He obeys.


	5. Act Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has his second meeting with John

Four serial suicides and now a note. Good god, it’s christmas! It’s almost ruined by the particularly acidic atmosphere and his particularly grueling relationship with the majority of the yarders, but in the end, he’s in the back of a cab, being ferried around by a serial killer.

The city slides by, loud in the dark but muffled by the windows. Sherlock thinks about Dominic. He hit a dead end- dozens of results from the complicated algorithms he’s made and keeps making and he gets nothing. He knows of the dozens of identities Dominic’s had over the years but the fucker’s got nothing original. It’s all manufactured. He’ll have to try a different sort of algorithm.

A college is their destination. Twin buildings rise like frozen vengeance out of the night, lit by bright lawn lights. Sherlock steps out of the cab as the cabbie threatens him with a lighter- honestly, dozens of cases and he thinks that Sherlock doesn’t know his guns. The genius goes with it, though, because, really, he’s just too invested. He wants to take the dare- he wants to see who’s the cleverer of the two.

They sit across from each other at a long table, two bottles with a big white pill in each. Sherlock examines the first one, his focus so trained on the pill- which one, which one?- that everything else, including a serial killer sitting three and a half feet away, becomes blurry enough to enter into the realm of surreality.

So, odds. Sherlock thinks. Figure out the odds.

Two bottles: one is death, the other is not. Fifty percent chance; one half. Like a penny.

Four chances. Four halves. Like a spinner.

One half times one half times one half times one half is… one sixteenth.

Over all, Jeff Hope had a one in sixteenth chance of getting this right- made more improbable by the fact that this isn’t the second or third or fiftieth time he’s done this. It’s the first. Each person is different. They would choose differently each time. Hope can’t read people, or he would have simply shot Sherlock.

As it is, Sherlock’s betting he has some kind of advantage. Immunity? A man with an aneurysm could have medication, no? Something to slow the clock or dim the pain? Jeff’s poor, but not that poor. So, if he were to medicate, it’s possible he could be using very, very potent drugs to stop it from hurting all the time. Or maybe he’s too poor, and the drug he’s using is just another part of the deal. Either way, the pills are exactly the same. It’s the two of them that are different.

“Well done,” Sherlock says, “giving your victims your own medication,” Sherlock drawls as he sets the bottle down. Jeff’s face gives away surprise, then anger. Foiled by a brat.

“That’s too bad you’re a one trick pony, though. You might have a chance, if you ever spared any thought beyond this problem of yours,” because, really, this dare, this bet that has Sherlock so enamoured and hooked, was Jeff’s only tool. Now he’s sitting there with a lighter and two pills with a man who’s suddenly not interested in the leverage Jeff had before.

Sherlock’s texting under the table, firing off a message without ever seeing the contents. Jeff gives an ironic little smile before he stands up and begins to pace. he’s trying to figure out what to do now. His victim has slipped out of his grasp. His game is up, because there’s a fucking consulting detective sitting a few feet away. The money that will go to his children won’t be going anywhere, because that was a condition of the deal- either don’t get caught or don’t get paid.

He knows what should happen. He makes a break for it and makes it to the hallway before the ominous woosh of Sherlock’s coat is heard. He’s got long legs. It won’t take him long. That’s all right, though. It won’t take Jeff long, either. He runs until he reaches a window without a ledge and, with one last fervent prayer that the money still goes through, throws himself out of the window and down, down, down.

Just as police cars sound out their alarms, Sherlock fligns the upper half of his body out over jagged glass. Hope is gone. Dammit! Ooh. In the shadows moves a form that Sherlock knows well. He’s been obsessing over this particular creature for quite some time. He would know those dimensions from anywhere and from any angle.  

It’s always something, Sherlock thinks as he turns back and goes to the room they were in to collect the pills. It’s always something, Sherlock thinks as he meets up with the yarders and is taken to an ambulance and saddled with a hideous orange blanket. Dominic Sander’s just ran away with Sherlock’s corpse. Dominic Sanders is a Blank.

Sherlock recalls how certain the cabby was of everything- certain he will die, certain his kids need the money, certainty certainty, certainty; the trade mark of artificial programming. He thought he was chasing a man, and he was really chasing a Blank.

Oooooh things just got interesting.

…

“Data extracted. Commencing check. What’s your name?”

“B-09.”

“How are you?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Do you have family?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Good. Data extract complete for B-02 and B-09. Shutting down.” B-09 feels the needle and stands as directed. He looks at the blood on the floor where B-02 was standing a moment ago- he was gurneyed and taken to medical not too long ago. As B-09 follows his orders and finds himself within his own room again, he can’t help but wonder whether or not B-02 will disappear like B-08 did, before they got another one to fill in the space.

He lies down in his jumpsuit and closes his eyes, trusting his superior sense of time to wake him when he wishes.

 


	6. Do What I want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hits a rough patch and makes himself a promise.

Bored. Three weeks, and no Blank. He’s got no (interesting) cases, and nothing to do, no where to go, no experiments to run… God, he feels raw and exposed right now. He stares at the ceiling, cataloguing nothing but how bored he is. Time for a distraction.

He gets up and goes to his bedroom. He sticks a hand underneath his bed and riffles around until he stumbles across the spot. Then, he unfolds one of those old-fashioned switch blades and carefully cuts the exact spot he sewed up and disguised last time. He sets the knife down and extracts a little black box.

Carefully, he sets his finger against the middle of it, and it clicks open with a small sigh. Good, it’s still there: two syringes and a bottle with a rubber seal on it (again, old fashioned). Sherlock rises and sits on his bed, kicking of his shoes and everything but his pants. He measures out exactly three milligrams of solution and injects the drug into his vein.

He kicks back and stares at the ceiling, wondering when he can sleep, and logically knowing it wouldn’t be for hours, now. He’s just injected the most toxic and effective drug in the world. Rhapsody: guaranteed to bring out your greatest dreams and your most terrifying nightmares. Most people won’t touch it, but Sherlock is bored. He needs something to take the edge off and there is nothing that holds his attention anymore. Not since… no. Don’t think about it. It makes you sad. You don’t need sad. You need calm.

Above him, the ceiling begins to spin, and Sherlock wonders when it grew a face.

“It’s not a face, you dull boy.” He glances to his right. God, he’s here, long blond hair making him look like a god as it curls exquisitely around his face, down his neck, kisses his shoulders and upper back. As always, his grecian facial structure attracts Sherlock like nothing else has.

“Look for yourself.” He gestures at the ceiling, then turns to check. No, it’s not a face, anymore.

“Dull,” he says again, and Sherlock turns back to him, only to see his lovely skin darken. It keeps darkening until it’s the shade that he was when Sherlock last let him near.

“I’m not dull,” Sherlock argues.

“Oh, but you are,” he says, “you’re a dull,” He moves further onto the bed, his jewel toned gold button down gaping at the neck, exposing his chest as he crawls like the sexy bastard he is, “weak,” he grips Sherlock’s face and neck with one and undoes the buttons on his trousers with the other, “helpless,” his hand slides over Sherlock’s hip until he gets to his pubic hair. His voice is a bare whisper next to Sherlock’s ear, “little boy.” Sherlock looks at him and tries to remember that he was a master at manipulation, and Sherlock was so far from strong then.

“Funny,” he says as he tries to control his breathing, “because you’re the one who’s dead, Victor. You’re the only one of us that people can’t see.” He tries to rouse himself from the bed but he can’t, because Victor’s leaning all his weight on is crushing his throat as his other hand brushes the top of Sherlock’s penis. He begins to choke as he speaks the last words.

“In fact… you’re not even here now. I’m high as a fucking kite. You’re not here. You’re not real.” Victor stops his increasingly choking lean and just holds there for a moment, Sherlock gaping and gasping beneath him, hand in the other’s pants. Blue eyes blink and flicker and a smile spreads across his face as he withdraws both weight and hand before laying down next to him.

“Do you know what I did to you, Sherlock? I got you high and kept you captive, trying to get a dream, just chasing an absence. Because that’s what silence is- an absence of noise. You never visit anymore, but I’ve still got you by your tiny little heart.” Sherlock turns himself to face him.

“Did I even surprise you?” Victor gives him a wry smile as he runs the fingertips of one hand down Sherlock’s face.

“I knew you were starting to hate me- hate what I do to you.”

“But?”

“You were too sweet- too utterly incapable of living without me that you had given up everything. I thought I knew you, inside and out. Turns out I had never made you as angry as you had been.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s closing his eyes, the stroking soothing to him. He feels his limbs getting heavy again. Victor sets a thumb against Sherlock’s bottom lip. He tiredly lets him manipulate it, giving Victor a flash of white teeth.

“Go to sleep, yeah? Be a good boy, Sherlock. Do what I want.” Sherlock’s eyes closed to the tune of one of those old songs Victor loves.

My old man’s a bad man

but he’s got a soul

as sweet as blood red jam...

…

Sherlock jolts awake hours and hours later. God… his head hurts and he stumbles into the bathroom to dry heave and take pain pills. Then he goes to the kitchen. Tea. Yes, tea will do it. He puts the kettle on and then switches it off before putting on a pot of water to boil. If he hears the tea kettle screaming, he’ll shoot it, and that will be his third one this year.

He goes back to his room, picks up his discarded clothing and strips out of what he’s still wearing. He puts it all in the basket, pants included, before redressing himself in his pajamas. He takes his time moving back to the kitchen and setting his tea to steep.

He looks up at the ding of an alert from his tablet. He makes his way to the living room. Oh, god. The Blank was out and about. He was… he was within reach, and Sherlock fucking missed it because he got high and… what did he do? He’ll figure it out in a minute.

He records where the Blank was at and what he did (killed some dignitary from somewhere). Then he goes and gets tea. As he stares at the ceiling, he recalls that if Lestrade had caught the Blank’s appearance, then he would have called Sherlock, who was either high or sleeping it off, and he would have found himself drug searched in short order. He can’t do it again. Not until he finds the Blank. Not until he’s done.

Sherlock opens his tablet in the 2D version and begins to sort through the info it’s compiled. He’ll find the Blank, and then he’ll do what he’s been meaning to do for a long time, now.

He’s going to bring the original personality back.

 


	7. Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets what he wants.

“I don’t care!” Sherlock snarls at Lestrade as he paces back and forth. He hadn’t been careful (dull, Sherlock.) when he threw the Rhapsody away. Correction: he didn’t clean up his mess when he had a bit of a tantrum and broke the bottle on the edge of the sink and left it there because who the hell wants to take care of their own destruction? Then Lestrade walked in, took a look at the tiny mess, and realized what the remnants used to be. Then there was the lecture, and the threat of rehab.

“I don’t care.” He says again, suddenly deadly calm as his tablet dings a specific note that means one thing: Dominic. he strides over to it and, after doing something Lestrade can’t see, turns and flies down the hall to his bedroom, where he’s stripped and pulled his slacks on before Lestrade’s even made the door.

“Oi! We’re not done, Sherlock!” Lestrade yells as Sherlock begins to dig through his things. First, he dawns a v-neck black tea, then a purple silk shirt, effectively covering the honeycomb tattoos across his back.

“Yes, we are. The Blank is back.” Long socks slide onto long feet, both of which are then inserted into long shoes. Lestrade moves out of the way as Sherlock practically hurtles to the bathroom, where he attacks the wild mop of hair on his head with a water bottle, some kind of product, then a hair dryer and brush simultaneously.

“No we’re not done, mister I’m-too-bored-to-stay-clean. Well, I’m too angry to let this drop!” Sherlock applies toothpaste and water to his toothbrush and begins to scrub at his teeth and tongue as quickly as he can. He spits and splashes his face first with water, then with witch hazel. He scrubs it all off with a rough-looking face cloth before turning to Lestrade.

“Can you be mad later?” Lestrade just stares at him.

“Please? I didn’t take all of it.” It earns him a snort.

“Do you want a fucking prize? One of the only addicts to have overdosed on Rhapsody and survived and you’re fine now because you didn’t use the whole thing? Sherlock Holmes, everybody.” Sherlock has the sense to look chastised, dropping his gaze a bit and pinching his mouth.

“Fine,” Sherlock rushes the door but Lestrade clamps a hand hard enough to bruise on his shoulder, “but do it again, though. See what happens.” He lets Sherlock go, the genius flying out the door, spilling a string of information that Lestrade catches only by dozens of cases’ worth of practice. Sherlock just barely gets his coat buttoned before he makes it out of the door, leaving Lestrade to pull it shut.

They get into Lestrade’s car.

“Where?” When Lestrade doesn’t get an answer he looks over, only to see Sherlock set the tablet Lestrade didn’t see him pick up on the dash. A map hovers above the small rectangle.

“There.” Sherlock says, pointing to a dilapidated point of town. Lestrade picks up his phone and begins to direct his people to surround the place in a circle, with direct orders of DO NOT ENGAGE. When he gets off the phone, Sherlock bouncing his leg up and down and constantly panning his gaze. God, he’s impatient today. Lestrade doesn’t speed up in the slightest.

Let the fucker sit and stew. Lord knows that everyone else does when it involves him.

At Sherlock’s request, Lestrade parks a block and the detective departs from the car. Lestrade gets out with him. Sherlock might be able to handle himself, but anyone caught in the crossfire is a rabbit between two starved wolves: dead meat.

Lestrade does what he learned to do years ago. He forgets he’s a cop. He relaxes his shoulders like he doesn’t think someone’s about to die. He pretends like he’s out with his wife instead of out with Sherlock. He’s not a cop, he’s a man going for a drink.

Inside is smoky and dim like it’s in the middle of the night instead of two in the afternoon. Lestrade goes to the bar to get himself a drink and let Sherlock do his thing.

In the corner’s a few pool tables. One of them’s got a blond leant over it, siteing down the cue, potting his fifth (?) ball in a row, and then lining up for the eight ball next. Sherlock doesn’t let his gaze linger but instead shifts his gaze around the room, but there’s no one here who’s trying to see what goes on with the blonde.

Sherlock can pick out the lining of a knife in one of Dominic’s pockets. He can tell by the way Dominic straightens up that he’s about to move. Sherlock settles at an empty table, facing Lestrade, Dominic in his peripheral vision.

Just as Dominic moves, so does Sherlock. Lestrade, who’s had no more than a sip this entire time, calls it in and then moves in carefully. He’s just here for the collateral damage. Sherlock’s got hundreds of street fights under his belt, but Dominic’s clearly been programmed by the best.

They’re evenly matched- tit for tat- but Sherlock never fights fair if he can help it. He gets in a nut shot and uses the split second of time to pin him. It ends abruptly when Sherlock  stabs him in the neck with a needle.

Dominic’s utterly incoherent on the floor and Sherlock is testing his jaw against his hand when police flood the bar and arrest the unconscious man. They haul him onto a gurney as the disguised ambulance outside spews paramedics and medical equipment and cop cars pull up and spews Donovan and Anderson.

“Freak.”

“Not now.” Sherlock says as he watches the ambulance. He’s thinking, conceiving a plan to get access to that mind- that utterly empty mind, and isn’t that a rare thing? He knows he’ll have to go through Mycroft, because they’ve been in this together for so long that it’s impossible for Sherlock to screw around with the mind of a blank without.

“Brother.” Mycroft answers the phone as cold as he usually is. Sherlock can hear the worry, though. The detective doesn’t call. He texts. He meets face to face, but he doesn’t call.

“I found him. He’s in the back of an ambulance now.” A beat of silence on the other end gives Sherlock all the clues he needs- Mycroft has not forgotten Sherlock’s destructive history, for all he’s kept quiet about it.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes. This time, I have an idea.”

 


	8. Data Recall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock puts his programming skills to the test.

Sherlock slides his white earpiece into place and flicks his finger over the top of it, causing it to blink for a moment and then glow. He rides out the odd falling feeling of the piece syncing with his mind. He raises his hands- bare for the activity. Floating Violotouch tech provides him with monitors and a keyboard, which he moves aside to float out of the way for a while.

He is standing in a disgustingly unmarred room. It’s all white, but the lights have been dimmed so that Sherlock doesn’t shoot it or stab it or SOMETHING to interrupt the utter perfection around him. In the center of the room is a reclined white chair with white cushioning. The sleek headrest is larger than what could comfortably hold a head, as everyone who lies there is wearing a helmet.

Laying in the chair is B-0-9. He is wearing a set of white scrubs, and is unconscious on something that will fade away in a few moments. he hears his brother’s voice in his ear.

“This isn’t going to be like last time, Sherlock. I will shut you down.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It’s not quite believed.” The screen in front of him registers a spike from the utterly smooth line in front of him. Sherlock gets to work.

“Good evening. Do you know where you are?” The Blank does not respond. His brain activity jumps, but not drastically. So far, so good. Sherlock’s drug worked.

“Alright, starting data search,” Sherlock records audibly as the icon on his main screen keeps track of the amount of data found.

“Data search complete,” he says after a few moments, “starting data recall in three… two… one… recall started.”

“Five minute mark. Status: normal.” Sherlock falls silent as he watches thousands of lines of code leave a brain that has not grown naturally since the death of the original. It is fascinating.

“Ten minute mark. Status: normal.” At the eleven minute mark, the body in the chair convulses. At this point, ninety nine percent of the data has been recalled from the brain. Sherlock did not expect this. At this point, the brain is the most susceptible to suggestions, since all of the panic programming has already been removed.

It occurs to Sherlock that for this kind of reaction, he must have reached the large, basic building blocks, designed to provide a base for other programming. This is the one percent that’s left in the subject’s brain. This is the part that everything else is built off of- the cornerstone. This programming has been here for a long time.

As fast as he can, he begins to rotate the screens, looking for the- ah! He pulls a particular screen towards him and presses the microphone icon in the center.

“Hullo? B-0-7? Are you there?” The screen monitoring his natural brain activity jumps higher than it already is- stimuli on top of panic.

“You are safe. Calm down. You are safe.” It doesn’t do anything- merely jacking the line higher. In moments, someone is going to burst into the room and tranque his subject. He does not want this to happen. If he can do this, then he may unwrap another layer to the corporation that operates through Blanks.

He has to reach the subject. He has to make him calm. So what’s he afraid of? He won’t recognize what’s happening to the data that won’t unload right now. In fact, he doesn’t happen anything. He pulls the keyboard over to him and manually opens the faceplate of the helmet. For a moment, the line jacks too near to the point of Shut Down. The door bursts open as Sherlock jumps in front of the subject’s narrowed field of vision. The line steadies at that point.

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay.” At the same time, Sherlock holds an arm out in a silent order to stop. The three who are set to tranque his subject stop where they are as the Blank moves his head and sees them. Sherlock can see the impending catastrophe at the sight presented: men in black with guns and helmets aiming at his subject.

Quickly, Sherlock grips the thick edges of the helmet where the faceplate has lifted and turns the subject’s head to face him.

“Hey, eyes on me, okay?” the man nods, though his breathing is still too fast. Sherlock leans forwards and rests his proud forehead against B-0-9’s.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” The genius stays there on his knee, breathing quietly with B-0-9 as the computer finishes.

“Data recollection complete.” Sherlock reaches down and undoes one of the straps keeping his subject in the chair. He goes for a second, and frees a single arm. B-0-9 wraps an arm around Sherlock and hugs tightly while the detective and master programmer frees him from the rest of the straps. Slowly, the line on the screen Sherlock can no longer see dips lower, into the Safe Zone.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock says quietly as his subject sits up. Sherlock joins him on the end of the seat. He reaches around and manually takes out the needle in the back of B-0-7’s head. Then he relieves him of the helmet.

“John Watson.” Sherlock smiles nicely at him.

“I’m Sherlock. You’ve been gone a long time, John, so everything’s going to confuse you for quite some time.”

“Oh, I know. It doesn’t look like I’m still eight.” Sherlock instantly decides that he likes him.

“No, I don’t suppose you are.”

LATER

“I don’t need supervision!” Sherlock says with the disdainful and disgusted curl of his mouth that only he can really do.

“Yes, because that just worked so well last time. If it makes you feel any better, it’ll be the DI you always work with.” Mycroft rolls out with not even an inch of reaction. He knows he’s already won this.

“Lestrade won’t even understand what I’m doing!”

“That’s a pity. You can teach him.” Mycroft lights a cigarette and sticks it in his mouth. He blows out a puff of smoke before he continues.

“As much as I’d like to utterly ignore the fact that you’re running around with a highly trained, amnesiac assassin, you being as excited as you are always ends in chaos and figurative burning,” he reasons. This time, he gets an eyebrow.

“Because you’re one to speak.”

“Then you know I’m not trying to ruin anything. Just get the detective inspector up to speed, and he’ll let you do what you like. It’s not like you won’t simply manipulate him.”

“Yeah, because you hire people who are simply ‘manipulated’.”

“Try a little harder then. Besides, you’ll have fun.”

“I don’t do fun.” Sherlock storms out of the office, because he knows that the real reason that Mycroft hired fucking Lestrade is because he’s afraid Sherlock will overdose or self destruct or do something drastic with John Watson that just isn’t excusable. Fine. He’ll just be smart about this.

Everyone, after all, can be manipulated. Just because Lestrade knows him doesn’t mean that it can’t be done. He just has to do something different. He has to include him- that much is obvious- but he doesn’t have to do it just to do it. He can convince him that Sherlock doesn’t need supervision. Sherlock begins to assemble a plan and compensate for his shit luck.  
  


 


	9. Pitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock runs his plan by Lestrade, who runs it by Sally.

He may have planned for Lestrade but he forgot about Donovan. Specifically, he forgot that Donovan has a degree in programming, and so has sizable well of knowledge on the subject. So when Sherlock explains to Lestrade that he wants to reprogram John with the working knowledge of a thirty-four year old man, he doesn’t count on the DI turning to Donovan and Donovan blowing everything up.

This is why, after a week of non-stop programming, very little food, and absolutely no drugs later, Sherlock finds himself close enough to the edge to kill someone but somehow vulnerable enough to cry. All this because Donovan wants to keep John stupid.

This is what he perceives the naysaying as. He learned a long time ago that one does not simply think like he does and then still trust one’s perception. That’s not how it works. Donovan does not want to keep John stupid. Donovan wants to protect John from Sherlock. She thinks Sherlock may be a psychopath and knows, by Sherlock’s own admission that he is a sociopath. She, according to her reality, has ample reason to say no.

Yes, she is wrong, but she is not being mean to John. Sherlock knows that he and Donovan do not show the same emotions in the same ways and that he cannot base his perception of anyone off how because he doesn’t do it the way other people do. So he stops himself from telling Donovan that she’s being mean, because she’s not. He doesn’t let himself say she’s being stupid, because she’s not.

Sociopaths often show callous disregard for other people. It’s a trait that Sherlock has deliberately developed so that no one would ask further questions. He, himself, gave her a story and made sure it checked out one hundred percent so that she would look at him in hatred and never anything worse. Never anything like pity. Never anything like mercy. He would rather be known as a sociopath than an Aspie, as his classmates once called it. He still remembers the day he made the decision.

…

_If people love to do anything, it’s label themselves. It’s give themselves the reputations of the people who they wish they could be. Someone constantly flaunting how smart they are often wishes they were smarter. Someone constantly flaunting their muscles wishes they were stronger. They wish they were so smart and so strong that they don’t have to flaunt it; other people do it for them. This simple truth has yet to occur to anyone in Sherlock’s class._

_He’s the youngest here by two years. People see him as a prodigy. It would have been five, but he wasn’t doing to hot mentally when he graduated middle school. His freshman class mostly ignore him (stop talking, and people talk for you. Everyone is clamouring to be heard though playing off like they aren’t. They don’t want to be labeled as desperate)._

_What they are not doing, however, is ignoring the kid who sits at the front of Sherlock’s bio class. They say he has Asperger’s- an Aspie, like it’s a joke. They laugh about how he’s clumsy (Sherlock is clumsy) and make jokes about his poor social skills (Sherlock has no friends). They talk about the man who comes and picks him up sometimes, specifically when he’s lashed out (they taunt him too much, anyways. That kid deserved to get his nose broken)._

_If people do anything, it’s label themselves falsely so that they come across as everything they want to be. They don’t want to face the ugly parts of themselves. It’s wrong to make fun of someone who genuinely does not understand you. It doesn’t matter here, though. Everyone’s doing it, so just drink the kool-aid and let’s get the party started. What people also do, though, is label other people._

_The Aspie kid has been labeled stupid. That’s the reputation that comes with missing the vast majority of social cues. Sherlock does not allow himself to be in a position where he has to observe the vast majority of social cues. Sherlock knows that if any of them ever took a hard look at him, they’d know he doesn’t understand it either. He’s the youngest freshman here, though, so they don’t expect him to understand. That’s his reputation._

_It won’t be for long. Then, he’ll be just like the other kid. He needs to do something before he gets old enough to be expected to “understand”. He has to choose a different disorder because he can’t erase the fact that he is socially stupid. He can’t delete the fact that he will probably never get it. So he has to change his reputation. He has to choose a new label that’s close enough to the old one that the story checks out._

_He knows a lot about psychology. He’s devoured handbooks on them- not the I-don’t-know-anything-about-the-subject kind but the actual reference handbooks. He’s gone into deep research on every mental disability he can find, specifically those on the autism spectrum and those with similar characteristics to Asperger’s._

_For instance, sociopaths often have poor social skills. They go against social norms and do’s and don’t’s because they can. With the right attitude, it won’t be extinguishable from the fact that Sherlock goes against social norms because he doesn’t know. Put people on the defensive, and they look for only the obvious- too busy saving face to see the reason they’re in the position in the first place._

_With the right attitude, there will be no difference between accidental and deliberate social blunders. Not only that, but being a sociopath encourages distance. Sociopathy and psychopathy are often confused, giving the added advantage of having a bodies-in-the-backyard reputation that causes people to stay away._

_He knows it’s not a perfect solution. Sitting in his freshmen class, Sherlock realizes that saying “I’m a sociopath” will cause people to attack him sometimes, rather than stay away from, him, but this way is better. They’ll attack him if he’s known as an Aspie, too. This way though, he gets no pity. He gets no victim status._

_In a world where everyone labels everyone else, one has to have a reputation. It’s just a matter of what kind. Mentally, he begins to assess every aspect of his behavior and compare it to that of a sociopath. He’s going to have to do some work to make it fit, but it’ll do._

_It has to, because he’s not going to be a different kind of dumb today._

…

“John Watson- the eight year old- was an urban child who had a sixty percent of chance of being a doctor and a thirty percent chance of being a soldier. I’m just programming the knowledge- the personality will be one hundred percent organic.”

“Yeah?” Donovan spits at him. “Rather convenient for you.”

“Come off it, Donovan. There’s no point in programming him differently than what he’s projected to be- it’ll make him miserable. Besides, it defeats the point, which I’m not explaining, because you’re ignorant ass wouldn’t understand it anyway.”

“Well, then do yourself a favor and elaborate, because I’m not just taking your word, this time,” she spits. Sherlock gives a long suffering sigh.

“Just based on the characteristics that had already begun to show at the time of his apparent death John would have, as a native Londoner, been in the military at some point in his life. He cared for people and he loved to take care of things. I’m not making this up.”

“Where’s the data?” Sherlock taps his forehead.

“Write it out.”

“You’re not the boss of me!”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade says, sensing an explosion about thirty seconds away. Sherlock turns his head. He watches like a cat, equally balanced between fighting or running.

“You can do it.” Sherlock nods, temper suddenly absent, mind now churning again.

“But sir! What if he’s lying?”

“Like he said, if he programs John any other way than the right one, he’ll be miserable. Until that time, we wait.”

“You’d put a man’s life in a psychopath’s hands?” Sally trying to guilt trip Lestrade is a fearsome thing indeed, when it comes to Sherlock. Fortunately, he’s not an idiot.

“I’m not a psychopath. I’m a high functioning sociopath. Do your research!” Sherlock sweeps out of the room. The funny thing is, high functioning sociopaths don’t exist, but he’s so smart that the story is just plausible enough to get him the desired reputation; the desired lie.

He can’t keep himself calm for long. He gets to program John Watson, and it’s going to be great. There’s a voice in the back of his mind that’s scritching around, though. It’s telling him that this isn’t enough- that it’s never enough. It’s telling him that just a little drop is going to work better than anything. It’s wrong, though. He doesn’t need it. Not until he’s done, that is.

He’ll quit deducing the day he uses when things are going so fast that it almost burns. That would be breaking one of his rules, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you all think.


	10. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is programming. More Viclock for you today.

There are other things that a thirty-four year old would know outside of how to be a doctor and how to be a soldier. He would be able to argue (relatively well, given Sherlock’s predictions) and keep the peace (far better) as well as hold his liquor (it will develop with time, but Sherlock should not invite addiction by programming John with a taste for alcohol. It’s a bit not good. John would also know how to socialize, which is the biggest problem: how do you program social knowledge without deciding a massive part of John’s personality?

After a few minutes of utter stillness, Sherlock realizes that he simply has to give John the rules as he sees them, because he has no social instinct. Without it, he cannot decide how John behaves. Merely giving him the knowledge as Sherlock sees it. The detective sees it as rules.

Sherlock knows a lot of rules. It’s how he developed his persona; sociopaths often defy rules for the hell of it. It’s here that things got a bit tricky for a closet Aspie. Other people have an instinctual knowledge of what to do or not to do. Yes, things get in the way (nervousness, pride, etc.), but it doesn’t change the fact that everyone but Sherlock knows what to do when someone says hi.

Still, there is a system and each operation builds on another. For instance, most conversations start with “hi”, though it should not be said more than once to the same person, specifically if the group is addressed at the door. After high, “how are you” or something equally simplistic is a good segway for any kind of conversation. People love to talk about themselves. Let them. Some of them don’t register that it’s a question, not a greeting, and say “fine”. People who are more or less friends (the kind has no bearing in this) will elaborate. Everyone else will not. This is also something that should not be repeated.

All these little rules may be instinctual, but they also take time to refine. It’s yet another thing that lurks in the working knowledge of a thirty-four year old. So Sherlock gets comfortable with his tablet and his tea and records, alongside other, more obvious things, the hundreds of little rules so that, when John goes to access his own instinct, he will already be semi well versed. He hopes it’s not going to fuck him up. With only himself and other Aspies as examples, he has no way to know.

He debates the merits of possibly fucking John up before deciding to bury it deeper than other knowledge, so that it will only rise when needed. Then he moves on. He would know how to drive. Sherlock makes a note to go and take himself out to the country to drive around in peace, for experience.

He may be able to settle for “probably” when it comes to social skills, but he’s not risking John’s life by not knowing what he’s doing, vehicle wise.

Finally, twenty four near-consecutive hours of programming later, Sherlock closes down the tablet and gets into bed. It’s nine in the evening, but he’s been at this for an age. Besides, tomorrow afternoon, he’s going to hook John up to the machine again. After two days of no sleep and little food, he’ll wind up spiraling out of control if he doesn’t correct himself. Then Sally will have the proof she knows is there and Lestrade will shut him down for another month. He knows his limits. He has to.

…

_They’re sitting side by side, he and Victor. Between them, between their thighs, is a single bottle of Rhapsody. Only a few drops remain. Victor looks at him and Sherlock looks back. It’s not getting hazy yet. It needs to get hazy NOW. Sherlock reaches for the last few drops, but Victor slaps his hand away._

_It’s followed by an answering slap, a few punches, then pushes, full on shoves as Sherlock simultaneously tries to get the bottle and fight off Victor. Why is Sherlock being bossed around by his shit roommate? He ducks and throws his shoulders into Victor’s abdomen. He hears the satisfying loss of breath. Victor stumbles back._

_Sherlock goes for the bottle, but it’s in Victor’s hand. His gaze turns to tunnel vision as he aims at that little glass vial of a nasty sort of oblivion. Sherlock’s never really liked it nice, when it comes to things like drugs and people… and Victor. Yes, because Victor is a separate entity from the rest._

_He’s what Sherlock can never be- accepted and seamless in his life at the center stage. It makes Sherlock hate Victor a bit. Rhapsody always brings that out. He’s only had it a few times, but it doesn’t stop him from recognizing the patterns._

_The core of sociology- as Sherlock learned to recognize his study as something that other people did- is patterns. Everybody repeats. The same behaviors- nervous tics, unconscious little quirks, reactions, actions- are used over and over again. It used to give him hope that he might be able to find people- smart people. Genius people, who needed such a thing as sociology to function. It isn’t that he wanted friends, but it’s rather disheartening to think that no one would ever understand. It’s one of his patterns, and hatred is another._

_The rush of rage that floods his belly even as the drug finishes its temporary engagement with his center of balance and his gag reflex is exhilarating. FINALLY something he can feel fully. Rhapsody stripped his inhibitions. It destroyed his carefully constructed behavior. When he was high, he acted on emotions he refused to acknowledge to everyone else, but deeply poured over internally. It’s why the drug works so well on him._

_As his body collides with Victor’s, Sherlock feels the damning sound of glass shattering. No. NO. That’s all he has for the month, goddammit! He has to… he has to socialize. He has new social situations to examine. He has to… god. There’s glass in both his hand and Victor’s. As the Rhapsody finishes worming it’s way through his system and begins to make things glow in unnaturally bright hues._

_As Sherlock stares at his hand- the bleeding one- and Victor’s, he wonder when he became such a desperate creature. He wonders when Victor stopped being an enemy- he certainly was one still- and started being his fuckbuddy and his supplier. Suddenly, for the first time in a long time, he wants to be in his reality. Not in Victor’s. Not in their mutually abusive isolation from everyone else. He doesn’t want it anymore because now he can’t handle his world. It isn’t like the end of middle school, when he just needed to learn without criticism, excel without tests for a while. It’s different from keeping night-owl hours. Now, he’s weak._

_Sherlock turns away from Victor and curls in on himself. He would rather be miserable than… this._

_Misery, after all, is a controlled reaction. Every reaction has a cause. Every cause is part of an individual/ group’s behavior. Behaviors are patterns, which are the core of society. Misery is, in short, a variable Sherlock can control. He knows, even as the drug sends him into the bad benders that comes with clarity of thought while he’s on Rhapsody, that he’d rather control his destruction than hand it over to a few ounces of chemical._

_It’s time for this to end._


	11. Sensory Input

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock downloads his file into John's brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I have some bad news: I won't be able to update regularly and probably not as often as I have for the last three months. Life happened.

Sherlock meets John for the second time on a rainy, freezing winter afternoon. The van pulls up, and John, in his pale green scrubs and white waterproof raincoat, is led into the police station by big orderlies in their own wet gear. Sherlock greets them at the front door, along with John’s assigned caretaker, who is supposed to record everything and make sure shit isn’t hitting the fan.

Sherlock takes them to the elevator, standing aside to let them in first, then clicking the floor to the basement. Most of the large, subterranean room is divided into sparse bedrooms with two bunkbeds stacked three high, designed to be used during riots and whatnot. Occupying a space in the back of the basement, though, is what is officially called an M.R.R.T: a Mental Programmer and Recalibration Terminal.

Sherlock has quietly dubbed it the Machine.

He nods at the orderlies, who each step away (though not too far, to Sherlock’s annoyance) to allow Sherlock to guide John carefully to the chair, using light pressure to guide each of his limbs. Sherlock’s nostrils widen and relax. To think that they reduced him to this needy ball of absolutely nothing.

Sherlock begins to talk. The caretaker, who has quietly begun writing since the orderlies stepped back, scribbles faster. It’s an outdated practice, scribbling when you can type on keyboards that can be banished and recovered with a single swipe.

“B-0-9. I’m going to hook you up to this M.R.R.T. It will hurt initially. When it does, relax.” Sherlock does not wait for John to respond. Right now, he’s pure intelligence. He will be able to pick up on Sherlock’s intentions from his body language even if he doesn’t know english. Sherlock taps his earpiece to turn it on and sink with both his mind and the wireless port of the M.R.R.T.

His screens begin to pop up. Sherlock arranges them. As he’s about to start the preliminaries, the door opens. Sally and Lestrade step through. John’s body freezes with new, unexpected and strange company. He can’t see them. The helmet is blocking. Quickly, before anything gets out of hand and he’s shut down for another week, Sherlock presses the digital commands and the faceplate opens. Sherlock walks through his screens to help move John’s head so that he can see the newcomers. As he’s doing that, Sherlock turns up the full force of his glare on both of them.

Lestrade has the wit to look sheepish. Sally stares back, like she didn’t just startle John.

“I’m re lowering the faceplate now.” Sherlock says as he sets John’s head back in the headrest and swiftly types in commands. The faceplate lowers.

“Beginning preliminary check. Machinery at one hundred percent capacity. Subject at one hundred percent capacity. Modular at one hundred percent capacity.” Sherlock is the modular; the person controlling all the buttons.

“Preliminary check complete. Computer, upload file Delta 2.30 to port 1967.”

“Scanning for file. File found. Upload?”

“Yes.”

“Uploading file Delta 2.30 to port 1967. 10%. 20%. 30%. 40%. 50%. 60%. 70%. 80% 90%. data upload complete. Open file in folder?”

“Yes.” A file the size of all the programming on Sherlock’s tablet after he had installed all his programs sits alone.

“Open Delta 2.3.”

“File open.”

“Begin download prep.”

“Prep begun. Prep complete.”

“Begin download.”

“Download begun. 10%. 20%. 30%. 40%. 50%. 60%. 70%. 80%. 90%. Download complete.”

“Isolate subject.”

“Subject isolated.”

“Run stability check.”

“Running… running… running… check complete. Stability optimal.”

“Disconnect subject.” The plug that attaches to the back of John’s helmet produces a whirring sound. Sherlock walks through his screens and catches the thick chord as it falls. He sets it down in the holder on the underside of the chair. Sherlock rises from his crouch. He presses buttons on either side of the helmet. The faceplate disengages with a whisp of air. Carefully, Sherlock pulls John upright and relieves him of the helmet.

John’s head swivels, eyes roving over everyone and everything. His thin lips move quietly, and Sherlock can tell that he’s assigning words to everything he sees. Finally, his dark blue eyes find Sherlock again. His mouth is still moving as Sherlock tries to deduce him. To the detective’s private delight, he can’t deduce a thing about John’s personality, merely that he’s intelligent. Though only time will tell if he actually did it, it appears as though Sherlock’s successfully reprogrammed a Blank to independence, rather than just another set of parameters.

As Sherlock watches, John swings his legs down and stands up. He walks around the room, touching things, mouth still moving. At one point, he actually holds onto the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat. For whatever reason, the detective does not move himself away, merely letting John get what he came for and move on. He touches walls, each material of the Machine, and everything else he can find. Quite suddenly, after John’s felt his teeth and his own skin and hair, he speaks.

“I’m hungry.” Sherlock gave him both a London accent (which he would have had, had he grown up) and the way words are pronounced in the dictionary. Sherlock smiles at him.

“Food it is, then.” Sherlock produces what looks like a piece of candy (soft, not hard) and holds it out in one bare hand. For a moment, the silence is tense and heavy. John raises one callused hand (he doesn’t appear to have noticed them, yet.) and lays it against the fingers of Sherlock’s hand, rather than take the offering. His head tilts as he looks at those long, marred fingers.

Chemical stains and kitchen accidents, knife fights and bare knuckle arguments, exacto knife slips and car crashes, violin playing and gun firing have left Sherlock’s hands heavily changed and very strong. John stares and stares, mouth still moving. Sherlock stands absolutely, letting him simply look, because that’s what John’s going to do. Finally, John takes the candy and shoves it quickly into his mouth after unwrapping it.

His mouth twists up into a smile. Someone’s got a sweet tooth, then. Sherlock takes note of that before he carefully gives John’s shoulder a little pressure. The Blank takes the hint and turns. He goes to the door, still turning the Starburst over in his mouth. He stops and regards Lestrade and Donovan. His head tilts to the side again, like he’s regarding something. Sally makes to step forwards. Behind him, Sherlock pins her in place with a glare.

Finally, when John seems to have acquainted himself with whatever it is he was looking for, he walks forward again. As they make their way down the long hallway, John has to check in every door, touch every unfamiliar surface, gage every little thing. Donovan is getting frustrated with the slow progress. Sherlock ignores her.

When they make it to the elevator, John tilts his head back to look at the little square in the roof of the elevator, as though he wants to see the cables (he probably does).

Right here, Sherlock resolves to show him everything he doesn’t yet have an experience for. He knows what if feels like to be stuck on the outside with no way to get in.

 


	12. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Sherlock and John.

She’s never seen him be gentle with anyone. Not assault victims. Not survivors of any kind. Not those in shock or with stockholm syndrome. No one has ever seen the careful side of Sherlock Holmes. So when he immediately acts with caution where John is concerned, Donovan has her doubts. Sherlock is a psychopath. Emotionally scarring is his middle name. He’s up to something.

She leans against the water jug that no one can figure out how to attach to the dispenser and watches Sherlock and Lestrade talk through the window.

“You’re mood just keeps getting worse.” Anderson says by way of greeting. He hands her coffee. The warm cup is nice. Anderson never brings it if it isn’t fresh. Unfortunately, it’s one in the morning, and no one can really cheer up anyone else at one in the morning. Not even with a giant community canister of expensive turkish roast.

“It’s one in the morning.” Anderson just looks at her.

“If that was all, I wouldn’t have bothered.” Sally nods towards Sherlock.

“It’s him.” Beyond him, an uncomfortable row of four navy blue plastic chairs with silver metal legs faces the bay windows. John is sitting in one of them. It’s been a couple of weeks.

Ever since Sherlock did what everyone’s hoping is John’s final data upload, he’s had something for John. Books- by the armload and in varying difficulties- newspapers, movies- old and new- a laptop with a list of sites of different purposes, magazines- some of them were about fashion, since apparently John doesn’t have “tastes” yet- food, candy, and more. There’s also the fact that, if John asks, then Sherlock explains. He’s never been that considerate of anyone.

“What, the way he’s acting around John?” Sally nods.

“He’s a psychopath. He got what he wanted- to program John. Now he’s done that, and while I understand checking on his progress, I can’t see the purpose for this much… attention.” That right there is what’s really been bugging Sally. The amount of attention Sherlock gives has only ever been bested by a case or an experiment.

“It’s odd, but John’s a bit like Sherlock’s brain child. I think he may just be excited to have someone who’s as bad at socializing as he is.” Maybe he is right. While John’s practical knowledge, interests and tastes have been expanding, he still barely knows to say hi.

“Yeah, but Sherlock’s not focused on helping John with what he’s really lacking in.” Sally returns.

“He’s lacking in everything.”

“But he actually needs help in socializing. Everything else can be done on his own.”

“So have you tried.” Here, Sally’s cheeks color a bit.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I may have been banned from speaking to John.” Anderson’s mouth pulls into an involuntary smile.

“What the hell did you do?” he says with a snicker. He’s all for Sally over Sherlock in any situation, but the fact that Sherlock would go as far as to ban her from speaking to John is just…

“I told him that if someone says hi, say hi back.” Well that makes no sense. Anderson rolls his eyes.

“It’s possible that it’s just a quirk.” Donovan scoffs.

“There’s nothing that’s a “just” with him. He’s up to something.” Anderson’s mouth quirks up on one side with a smile.

“Look, if he is, no one’s better equipped to figure it out than you. Don’t blow the top off it just yet, yeah?” Sally sighs, shoulders dropping under her tan jacket.

“Yeah.”

“Look, it’ll be two at the earliest by the time you get home. I’ll finish up here.” Anderson nods to the paperwork Sally meant to have done by now. The police officer gives a tired smile.

“Yeah. Thanks, mate.”

“Any time.”

…

No one’s really sure how Sherlock did it, but, three days later, John is moving into the upstairs bedroom of his flat. Sally is, of course, incredibly pissed about it, but even she can’t make Sherlock look bad enough to stop him.

Like he has been doing, John stops just inside the doorway (Sherlock is prepared, and goes in first) and looks around. His mouth starts to move again, mouthing objects, making connections. Sherlock tries to read his lips. He’s focused on the jar on the coffee table right now.

Sherlock goes and puts the kettle on, content to let John wander around for now. As he waits for the pot to scream, Sherlock riffles through a pile and comes up with a cold case Sherlock gave him a few weeks ago. He starts to spread the papers out. Sherlock jerks his head up. John is watching him. That’s going to take some getting used to.

“Murder.” It’s the first time John’s ever put sound to his sights.

“Yes. A triple homicide.” John is still watching, silent again. He seems to do a lot of that- being quiet. Sherlock decides he likes it. Sherlock begins to flick through the photos; one hung, two shot (through head and through heart).

He ticks through all the little things, like how the one that was hung is dirty in the picture; much dirtier than the other two. Steadily, John moves closer, eyes as riveted on the photos as Sherlock is. In the quiet afternoon light, it feels like a beginning to Sherlock, and god, he hasn’t felt that in a long time. Not since uni.

…

_Uni is to Sherlock what many things were: just another step. The campus teems with life. The huge green common had freshmen mixing with representatives for different groups and science students explaining this or that to art ones._

_Sherlock was the latter. All of his credits had been obtained by testing out the year before; he’d be going straight into advanced art classes, with programming on the side. He hasn’t touched that side of the computer for a long time, but he remembers every last trick, so he’d been able to bypass the first few classes for that, too._

_The car takes him around the great circle drive and to the front of the housing wing of the school. Across from him, Mycroft is watching his features._

_“Are you sure about this?” Sherlock is always sure of everything, but he looks rather worried about this, despite his smooth and bland expression that he’d adopted some years back._

_“Of course.” The car comes to a stop, and Sherlock gets out. He doesn’t say goodbye just yet, knowing that Mycroft will follow. He pulls out a couple of uncharacterized black suitcases and sets them on the pavement. Mycroft reaches into the back of the trunk and pulls out a couple of large boxes. Sherlock sets up the dolly. Together they work to get Sherlock’s things inside and up to the second floor._

_Sherlock smoothly unlocks the door, despite never having been in here before. As they enter Sherlock’s dorm, Sherlock immediately realizes that he may have underestimated his ability to deal with people. The dorms are set up in groups, with three bedrooms housing up to six people, and one community bathroom, kitchen, and livingroom. He thought that, since the college is rather underpopulated just now, he’d wind up with maybe two other roommates. There are three in evidence and a fourth whose stuff is just sitting there._

_All in stride, he reminds himself; it’s been a mantra since his freshmen year of highschool._

_“Hey! You must be our last roommate?” A sable haired film student says cheerily. The camera that hangs around his neck is as much evidence of his profession as the black binders in an open box._

_“I suppose.” Sherlock says neutrally._

_“What’s your name?” Another says._

_“William.” Sherlock’s second name rolls off the tongue as easily as his first one used to. Part of his agreement with Mycroft had been that Sherlock not attend college under his own name- that he have a substantial alter ego for privacy. So William is going to college, and Sherlock is back at the family estate._

_Sherlock moves off to the only room unoccupied. Two of them must be friends, and decided to try their luck with the familiar before they went and possibly picked up a disastrous stranger for a roommate. He drags his suitcases in and begins to pull the drawers out of the dresser. He examines every little thing; not unpacking, but looking first._

_When he has done that, he turns back to Mycroft, who’s parked the dolly and waits in the doorway. Sherlock nods._

_“Don’t neglect our agreement.” Mycroft says._

_“I know.” His brother offers a wane smile._

_“Until next time, then.” Mycroft leaves the same way he came, with a courteous nod to the three freshmen students and a soft tap of his heals on the hallway outside. Sherlock sits on the bed against the far wall, underneath the window. He’s here. He doesn't need to be here, but he is, free ride via scholarship. He supposes he could be unhappy, but for the first time in a long time, there isn’t something in there gazes when they look at him._

_For the first time in a long time, he’s been left to his own devices. Don’t neglect our agreement. Right. He’ll have to join a club. He doesn’t have to keep in contact provided he exists outside of his grades and his own mind. Sherlock opens the first box and begins to unpack, methodically putting things away behind the closed door of his room._

_It feels like a beginning._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New update:  
> i took down one of my works, the Tamer. If you were reading it, and you want to know why, shoot me an ask.


	13. Pineapples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dreams

As Sherlock guessed, John is no more concerned with Sherlock’s lack of social graces than he is with the air he breathes. He’s also rather nice to have at crime scenes, so Sherlock takes him to most of them. Everything he does- everything they all do- John watches. It’s nice, to have someone else who spends a lot of time just watching.

The first big case John witnesses is one in which three girls are hanged at the same time in different locations a day apart from each other. The first’s body was found just hours after the fact, the second days, and the third almost immediately.

Sherlock, back in their flat (when had he started calling it “theirs”? He’ll have to examine that. It didn’t go well, last time.) is sitting in his chair, in his thinking pose. John is watching him with that impassive expression that indicates neither approval nor its opposite.

“What are you thinking?” John says eventually, shattering the mental train Sherlock had been riding. On the other hand, having someone here for this is different, so the train wasn’t strong enough in the first place.

Their eyes connect across the air.

“The girls.” Sherlock says eventually. John nods. It’s as good an invitation as he’s going to get.

“They’ve got similar personalities. Based on my deductions, they all had similar problems. Depression,” he begins, “and possible eating disorders, for a start. They weren’t as happy as everyone thought they were. They were underweight, overtaxed, and good liars.” He says. He can feel the train picking up speed again, axles and wheels, engines and coal being collected once more.

“None of that on its own doesn’t speak to anything extraordinary,” he adds. Can’t having John placing importance on things that aren’t because Sherlock didn’t clarify. “Their families were also similar, as were their friends, their grades, their GPAs, and social media habits.” Sherlock says.

“So I looked at their pages.”

“Lestrade said there was nothing to see.”

“I know. I looked at the deleted stuff. Each of them started receiving self destructing messages from an unknown person. I followed the remnants of those messages back to their source- a dummy email account.

“The email account was only receiving messages from those three, so I had to track down who it was that made the email account. That person is Edward Miles, an underrated hacker in southern London. He should be hanging his next victim this time next month.” Sherlock’s finger is tap tap tapping, waiting for the yarders to come up with some objection.

“How do you know it’s next month?” Sherlock looks down at his Violotech screens and begins to toggle and manipulate them.

“The three victims are all similar to his dead sister- hung herself from the top bunk of an old bed. She was there, unfound, for three days. It was the stench that finally brought someone.” Sherlock’s screen portrayed a young, lovely woman, dark hair long and waving around.

“Next month is the anniversary of when the will was read- investigation slowed everything- and her body buried.”

“So… he’s trying to honor her?” Sally says. Sherlock recalls to memory that Sally is smart, just not Sherlock’s smart.

“Yes. This is a mental breakdown.” John’s mouth opens.

“Why did she hang herself?” There’s a stillness in the room. Sherlock almost never explains.

“Because she thought that death was the best solution.” John nods. Sherlock moves on and launches into his next task, somehow completely unaware of the oddity of explaining things to John.

…

Sixteen hours later, the killer is caught, and John and Sherlock are catching a cab. Sherlock’s head hurts. The case was a short one, with the majority of the time it took to complete taken up by following the electronic trail. It’s as good a warning as he’s going to get. He won’t be able to sleep tonight, because the whispers will be too strong.

Throughout the evening, he can feel his eyes drifting shut, but he knows he’s going to dream. He knows he’ll dream of Victor, and he’s not ready for that. So he makes tea and he makes coffee and he eats food and watches crap telly and absolutely refuses to close his eyes.

At six in the morning, the television has gradually faded from his mind. Caffeine has stopped working. His eyes close, breath moving slowly in and out.

…

He’s in his dorm room. Everything is the way that Sherlock remembers it, except it’s brighter. It’s the way it felt with him and Victor before things went to hell and dragged the pair with it. He walks into room and immediately notices that this is not what it’s supposed to be.

He’s wearing his pajamas- something he didn’t get until right before Victor died. The room is empty, and cleared of all work. It was never like that; Victor was a dancer, Sherlock an art student, Miles was the name of the film student Sherlock first met, and their other two roommates were a business student (Sebastian) and a programmer (Liam), respectively. Someone was always doing something in the main room. (Of course, Victor wasn’t originally rooming with them, but still).

Sherlock looks around. God, it’s like no one lives here. He sees the door to the farthest bedroom open. Sebastian and Liam roomed in that one. Liam steps out. This was the one Sherlock knew the least. He had pale skin and hazel hair and he was always looking down- at a laptop, at a book, at a back of papers, at his shyness- and he never talked to anyone. Good job he wound up with Sebastian, Sherlock used to think.

The short, skinny freshman brushed by him and into the bathroom. He’s not wearing glasses. He always wore glasses. His too big tee shirt bunches and rides up as he reaches for a can of pineapples. He pops the top and takes a fork to it. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak when Sebastian walks in.

The man runs a bank and takes trips around the world whenever the fuck he feels like it. He, too, takes out a pop-top can of pineapples and begins to eat it. He never opens it, though, just stabs straight through the metal. One by one, the rest trickle in and pull down more cans of the stuff than was ever actually in the dorm and they eat mechanically. Miles doesn’t even eat the fruit- just gnaws on the metal lid, chewing and swallowing. Trickles of red run down his chin. His camera’s gone. He was never without his camera.

Victor is the last to arrive. He walks in and starts to laugh at Miles’ blood. He laughs at Sebastian’s empty stabbing because he can’t get through the metal. He laughs at Liam’s mechanical movements. Liam didn’t like pineapples. He didn’t like fruit, period, but he fucking hated pineapples.

Victor turns to Sherlock where he’s standing in the doorway, watching in mounting horror. Why he’s scared, he doesn't know, but this is so wrong.

“Do you want some, Sherlock?” Victor holds a can out to him. Sherlock starts to back away. Victor was never like this. He was indifferent sometimes. He was aggravating and taunting and he loved getting Sherlock’s space but he was never like this. He was never- Sherlock’s breath begins to come in faster, shallower bursts. He was never- he was never so cruel. Not until the very end, but that was… they were high.

They were- Sherlock takes the can even as he mind screams to stop stop stopthisallit’snotright. He opens it and stabs the fork into juicy chunks of yellow fruit. He lifts one to his mouth even as tears start to run down his dream face. The sweet flavor of pineapples bursts over his tongue.

Halfway to being swallowed, the pineapple gains a new flavor. He’s never tasted it before, but it’s bitter and it washes around his mouth and stings where he’s bitten the inside of his lips. He knows what it is though. He knows what makes those pineapple chunks taste so bad. There’s Rhapsody mixed with the juice. It sloshes around his mouth as he chews and swallows, unable to stop his dream body from doing dream things.

He drops the can- right into Victor’s hand. He finds himself fed more pineapples and he can’t stop eating them because Victor’s right there and he won’t let him know that he doesn’t want it. He won’t let him know that those tears mean anything.

As Sherlock’s stomach gets uncomfortably full, the metal top Miles was chewing has bitten through the flesh of one cheek. Blood has soaked his white collar and a good way down his chest and back. Sebastian has missed the can impaled himself on the unusually sharp tongs of his fork. Liam’s throat has begun to swell in an allergic reaction. He’s trying to breath and Sherlock wants to go to him and help him, but he can’t his own throat has started to swell.

it’s not the fruit, it’s the juice. Sherlock’s had too much drug. He’s had too much Rhapsody. The more he digests, the tighter his throat feels and the harder it is to focus. He manages to get to Liam, but it’s too late, because the smallest of them is already did. Sherlock opens his mouth in a scream of grief and anger because he could have stopped this- he could have known that Liam had an allergy. He watched. Liam was eating before things started to go bad.

All that comes out of that convulsing throat is a much subdued choked sound. Sherlock gets double vision as his stomach riots and he spews chunks of fruit all over Liam’s dead face and chest. His body starts to convulse and his vision bursts in rainbows. His chest won’t move right and he can’t get enough air.

Sebastian and Miles have bled out all over the floor and now all four of them are dying. Victor just stands there, eating a can of his favorite fruit while Sherlock dies from an overdose. He can’t stop thinking that it was never like this, even as his vision blacks and he looses his grip on surreality.

**  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I think I'm making a comeback. Let me know what you guys think!


	14. Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes, John is with him, and Sally makes her move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! I'm really BACK! let me know what you think (specifically the last part, please), because I really want to hear it.

Sherlock does not expect to sleep again, tonight. Probably not until he can’t stay awake again. He can feel the sweat dripping down his back and hates the feeling. He’s almost thirty, now. What the hell is doing, still at the mercy of dreams, for god’s sake? Not even the actual person, but twisted dreams of him. It’s troubling, to say the least.

He raises his head at the sensation of being watched and sees John at the entrance to the living room.

“Evening.”

“Morning.” John says. Ah, yes. It is… Sherlock looks down at his watch. It’s four in the morning. He knows that John has sketchy sleeping habits, to say the least, but he usually does not speak to Sherlock between the time that he goes to his room until seven or eight in the morning- three hours away.

The Blank moves to the kitchen. He’s dressed in a pair of loose pants with an elastic waistband and a nike symbol on one hip. Sherlock turns his head to watch him go and catches sight of the tattoo on his shoulder. B-0-9. Where has Sherlock seen it before? He’s certain it was nothing recent, judging by the hazy quality old (or Uni) memories have. He turns away before John catches him watching.

Very little makes the Blank self conscious, but that tattoo is one of them. Presently, the clink of the kettle coming into contact with the stove lets Sherlock know that John could not possibly be looking. He’s tempted to turn around and study it, but he knows full well (in a way that doesn’t often happen) that it’s a bad idea.

Ten minutes of John standing silently in the kitchen and Sherlock contemplating the wisdom of digging for the details of that tattoo later, the tea is ready. Sherlock picks up the cup set down on the side table and stares into the browning water. To dig, or not to dig? He’s almost certain that the circumstances of the first tattoo are not ones he wants to relive. Sherlock has learned the hard way that not all that is in his mind will help him; some of it will destroy him.

“I dream.” John says abruptly into the self absorbed silence. Sherlock snaps out of the indecisive state of mind to refocus on what’s here and now.

“About what?” It’s something Sherlock genuinely wants to know. The dreams John has are undoubtedly unaffected in any way by Sherlock's programming. What shows up there may very well be the first 100% John thing.

“People shaking.” Huh. Well, the mind is a strange place at night. Sherlock nods. John dreams of people shaking.

“Anything else?” Sherlock asks. John shakes his head and takes a drink of tea. Sherlock deduces that he genuinely enjoys it, and isn’t just doing it because the British drink tea, the way he dresses in sweaters and jeans because unassuming people do.

In the following silence, Sherlock decides. If he’s seen that tattoo before, he needs to find it. He needs to know what caused this half remembered tattoo. He’s inclined to chalk it up to coincidence, but that would be acting like a Yarder. After all, when would he have seen a tattoo designating a Blank?

Wrong question. Sherlock suddenly realizes. The memory leaps out of it’s locked and chained door before he can stop it.

…

It was time to go home. The bell, high and shrill, dismissed him and his classmates. He bolted out of his seat and out of the door. They usually messed with him less once he came under the eye of the pick-up teachers, who had eagle sharp eyes because fourth graders cause accidents. It’s a rule.

He’d always been ahead in school, so while he was in the fourth grade with a fifth grade math class, Sherlock was the age of a second grader (he was small, too. Fourth graders don’t like being shown up by a little brat).

Today, the SUV sent to pick him up was on time, and Sherlock climbed into the back seat. The driver pulled out onto the road and continued past the school zone. He merged with the cars on the highway while Sherlock watched the people in the other vehicles and gleaned bits and pieces of information from them as they pass.

He was looking at an old baby on board sticker and the owner of the car and decided that baby grew up a few years ago and the lady was still too lonely to take it off. Then his world was a screeching cacophony of noise and bright lights and, once movement had stilled in a little bubble around him, self awareness.

He felt like this once before. He was sick- stomach ache ripping through him as slowly and painfully as possible. He went and laid in the study, eyes narrowed by pseudo exhaustion. His gaze refused to focus long on anything but his eyelashes. The dark smudges capping either side of his vision. He could feel every shiver and every heated tongue of sickness slide over him and rob him of the cloudlike oblivion sleep promised.

This is a bit like that. He was hanging by the roof of the car, but be didn’t notice. Instead, he couldn’t seem to help but hyper focus on the cold tips of his fingers. He could feel the pressure of the seat belt. He knew that it kind of hurt but not that badly. He focused on his face warming as blood re orientated itself. And there, obstructing his vision, were his eyelashes.

His world blacked out, after that. He woke century later to men with masked faces. One of them was talking, telling him it’s okay. He realized he’s strapped to his bench on his stomach and started to kick and holler and scream for his brother.

His breath and his voice are stolen away when something painfully pierced his back, right between his thin little shoulder blades. Tears started in earnest as he again became hyper aware of his body and, specifically, the hand that stroked through his hair.

Almost immediately, the area where he was stabbed started to grow numb. Sherlock’s eyes began to drag shut as peace surrounded him. For a moment, the hand that worked to keep him calm reminded him of Mycroft. Wrong size, though. His brother’s hands are bigger.

The next time he woke up, he had a hole in his back. Lining it was metal and technology. They said it was called a jack. At this point, he was sitting on the bench (which, he had noticed, was actually a rather lab like table) and they were feeding him. He looks up as someone passed by the open door to his room.

It was two people, he noticed. One of them was rather tall, and Sherlock thought this man is a fully grown soldier, if a young one. He obstructs the view of his companion- a short fellow whose age Sherlock couldn’t tell. He was wearing what looks like footie pajamas. The color was ugly, though- an unfortunate shade of beige that washed him out. On the back of said clothing are the numbers B-0-8.

The man who’s supposed to take care of Sherlock only lets him let in a moment’s glance before he’s in front of Sherlock, doing something that makes Sherlock start to fight him. It’s too late, though, Sherlock had seen, and he’ll remember that detail.

…

These days, Sherlock’s jack is capped off by a little black piece of electricity-annulling plastic that protects the very delicate innards of the foreign, and unremovable tech. That spot on his back is actually the center of a black honeycomb tattoo. Later, Sherlock added more, so he has yellow ones too. The entire thing stretches from shoulder and stops below his collar.

The memory, as always, has Sherlock wishing he didn’t have to think about it. he won’t use though, not now. Not with John here. There’s far too much to do now. Still, Sherlock doesn’t think that’s the right memory. It’s a memory. It’s probably one of the memories that play into this, but Sherlock specifically remembers that it was a tattoo he saw.

He doesn’t know where he could have seen an actual tattoo, though. He flicks back through the cab driver case, but no, the cabbie was never naked. He’ll just have to keep looking, then.

...

Sally looks down at the paper in her hand, then up at the building. This should be it. She reaches forwards and rings one of five doorbells.

“Hello?” The grainy voice asks through the speaker.

“Mr. Lancaster?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Sally Donovan. Inspector for Scotland Yard.”

“A moment, please.” The speaker goes dead, and in forty five seconds, a man in a fitted cotton t-shirt and dark blue jeans opens the heavy wooden door. His hair’s long. Were it not in a ponytail, Sally thinks it may be long enough to touch his collarbone.

“What do you want?”

“To talk about your time in college.” The man leans against the door jamb, still safely behind the locked screen.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I think something very wrong is about to happen to this man.” Sally holds out her phone. On it is a picture of Sherlock at a crime scene. There’s a dead man in the background (hung, there for a few hours). Front and center is Sherlock. He’s in mid turn, coat flaring out behind him as his momentum moves the heavy fabric.

His face is stony (Anderson had apparently been especially irritating that day). There’s alarm on the face of several officers. In the left corner, John can be seen as calm as ever, following Sherlock out.

“William.” The incredulous tone of voice is Sally’s first tip off that Sherlock may have been very, very different in Uni.

“Yes.” It had been a stroke of luck that Sally had thought to look for Sherlock’s alias when his own name put him at what was a surprisingly large amount of land in the english countryside, crowned with a mansion. She’d have to bother Sherlock about it later, when it won’t give her endeavor away.  

“Can I see your badge?” He asked, still suspicious. Oh, the woman was as off duty copper as it gets, but, in the end, a good enough actor could pull it off. A badge and a staring contest later, Mr. Lancaster seemed almost convinced.

“You’re sure he’s in danger?”

“Yes.” It’s not exactly true, but it’s common knowledge that danger is synonymous with “interesting” and “case” and “mystery” Sherlock has been getting a lot of that with John. The man sighs and unlocks the door. He opens it up and lets her in.

“My name’s Miles, by the way.”

“Ah, thank you. Call me Sally, then.” The two were swallowed up by the dark interior of the house’s first floor. Miles Lancaster led Donovan up to the fourth floor (his piece of the house) and set about making tea.

“So what did you want to ask?” The man seemed mild-mannered, but the aura of the pictures on the walls and spread across the table seemed very, very fierce.

“I just need to know what happened to Sherlock in uni. It should help me figure out what’s going on with him.”

“You don’t know?”

“He’s a very good liar.” Miles nods.

“Right, suppose I should gather my thoughts, then.” They sit there until the pot screams. Miles rises to make the tea and he comes back with the refreshments.

“Where do you want to start?”

“Oh, I had a few questions I wanted to ask.”

“Go ahead, then. I’ll help if I can.” Sally settles in with her tea. This is going to be interesting.

 


	15. Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock remembers. Donovan goes hunting. Miles remembers.

“It was always a madhouse,” Miles says. His head is tilted back, a little smile stealing over his face at some memory.

“Was it?”

“Yeah. Three arts students, a business student, and a programmer all walked into a dorm room…” Sally chuckles a bit at the spin off of the classic joke.

“What did you do?”

“I was a film student- did a project on everyone who lived with me, since it was always so interesting.”

“What was William like?”

“He was the worst and best thing that happened to me. He used to have these… binges. Do nothing but class and drawing for three days, crash friday night and not rise until Sunday morning. His personality was acerbic, but that wasn’t too bad, cause he was also really quiet. He didn’t like being spoken too.”

“What else?”

“Then there was my best friend, Victor. He used to come by, just to mess with Will. Took his stuff and dared will to pickpocket it back. Once, he stole a little penknife. Completely sent Will off the handle. There was a fistfight and everything. After that there weren’t as many disappearing objects, but he still came around a lot, for both me and Will. Eventually, he moved in, god, that was when things really started picking up.”

“Picking up how?”

“Well, they were lovers, for one. For two, Victor was as wild as it gets. He used to go dragracing on the weekends. Sometimes he took Sherlock and I with him.”

“Aside from stealing things, how did their relationship work?” But now Miles is looking at Donovan, the strong brows of his face drawn down, mouth pursed in revelation.

“You know, I don’t think I’ll tell you.” Donovan felt the tables turn quickly. She’d have to salvage this somehow.

“If it’s a sensitive subjec-”

“It is. It’s also irrelevant to whatever William’s doing right now. Not very smart of you, by the way.” Suddenly, he’s up and pacing, toned legs carrying him from one end of the room to the other. That’s when she sees it. Among the boxes and clutter, the papers and pictures and cameras and pens and what not is a box titled “college project”.  Miles is still pacing.

“Waltz in here without a warrant, ask me questions about people I haven’t seen in years. William would smack me if he knew that I fell for the whole ‘William’s in trouble’ bit. Haven’t fallen for that in years…” His mumbling and aimless anger makes Sally think she may have underestimated him. He’d seemed nice enough at the door, and years on the job had given her an internal sense of DO NOT APPROACH.

Donovan stands.

“I’m sorry for bothering you…” She begins to make her way to the door, dead set on the box. The doorbell rings. Miles freezes, trapped between the problem of Donovan and this newest guest.

“Do not move.” He says. Then he’s gone, whipping down the hall so fast it takes a moment for Sally to react. Good. She’s got time. Ninety three seconds later, Miles is back. Sally is standing where she was when he left, staring.

“Leave. Now.” Miles says, seemingly calmer.

“Sorry for bothering you,” Sally murmurs as she makes her way quickly back down the stairs and out of the door, Miles on her heels.

“And don’t come back!” The door slams behind her. She doesn’t stop, making her way quickly down the path, hair swishing behind her as she makes it to her car, parked a ways away. She gets in it.

“Want to tell me what that was about?” Donovan looks at her driver.

“Thanks, Anderson, and yes, I’ll tell you what it was about.”

…

Sherlock thinks there’s more to it. He doesn’t know what or how, but he thinks it’s no ths easy. You can’t just reprogram someone for years and then switch the program off with no problem. It doesn’t work like that.

Sherlock watches John make tea. There’s a scar on the back of his upper arm. Physical markers can trigger repressed memories. That’s what wiping is, essentially- repressing organic memories, and triggering a mass amnesia of anything that had been programmed. Maybe John will recall everything. Maybe he wo’ recall anything at all. Maybe his range will go down. It’s an interesting phenomenon, really: what might happen to John Watson.

For now, though, without further information, Sherock can’t get anywhere. He turns his thoughts back to the task at hand: Were did he see a tattoo? Maybe it’s time to reassess what he’s looking for. Maybe he didn’t see a tattoo of B-0-9 or B-0-7. He could have see a tattoo with similar dimensions, though, so he should search for that.

Then, just like that, it’s there.

…

What had started as an irritation had morphed past the “it’s a game” stage and straight into the high stakes part of their lives. It was long past the start of school- well into the second semester. Sherlock and Victor were asleep.

The two had been an item for a while now. Sherlock woke up first and for a moment, just stared at Victor’s back. He had a tattoo on the back of his left shoulder. It was a blacked out square. From it, a hyper realistic stream of water flowed all the way down his back. He stretched out a hand and rubbed his thumb down the warm expanse of skin.

It was odd really, how the water is so realistic, but the hoe it comes out of is apparently not. Seemed like there would be at least a hint of water in the black…

…

Sherlock opens his eyes. Victor had a blacked out square with the exact placement an dimensions as the B-0-9 tattoo on his back. Sherlock glances again at the plaid shirt that covers John’s shoulders.

He doesn't want to jump to conclusions, but he’s almost certain that Victor was a Blank at some point. This, of course, opens up a whole new avenue of questions: if Victor was a Blank, then he would have been programmed. Blanks are never programmed to go towards drugs, because it’s not something that can be wiped, since drugs rely on physical dependency.

If it had been a problem, he would have been pulled so fast that Sherlock would never have gotten what he had with him. Victor did Rhapsody, though, and, after a while, so did Sherlock. This tells him one of two things: Blanks and Rhapsody and Victor and he and John are all connected.

Well, there’s an idea.

 


	16. Primed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally is up to no good. Sherlock is deducing and gets an epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As all people on CP time say, better late than never. Sorry about the four day lag time. See you guys later.

Sally slips the little drive into the port on her computer. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the computer registers the foreign piece of tech. She opens it and clicks on the only folder on there: FILM PROJECT

On it are a few files, one of them titled UNCUT VERSION she clicks on it, then settles in to watch.

The shot opens up to a dorm room with a few people in it. There’s boxes through two of three doors. There’s a bunch of random food sitting on the counters in the kitchenette. Two of the people are talking quietly. Across the screen in plain white letters: 9.12.2051

From behind the camera:

“I’m Miles.”

“Sebastian.”

“Liam.”

“What are you two studying?”

“Business.”

“Programming.” The awkward, stilted conversation effectively summarises first days everywhere.

The camera is set down on a table (presumably) and Miles moves into the shot, the boxes he takes up flexing the nice toning of youth. The others seem to have moved all they will tonight. They take up positions far away from each other. One of them is out of the shot.

The door opens a few minutes later. The sounds of the first day are loud for a moment while the open doorway admits two people. The first: a gangly, closed off man. Pale. Black hair. He introduces himself as William. He’s got baggage with him, and wastes no time in opening the farthest of the doors. The camera picks up a shot of an empty bedroom.

Behind him: a slightly taller, far more settled-looking man with ginger hair and a three-piece suit. He’s wheeling a dolly with three boxes on it. He follows the other man into the bedroom. The soft stup of the bedroom door closing.

“He seems nice,” a voice off camera says. Liam, Sally thinks.

After a few minutes of relative silence the door opens again, and the ginger man leaves. The door stays shut until the camera turns off. Sally contemplates looking through the next section to see what happens next, but before it happens, her phone rings. Work.

...

What was Victor doing with Rhapsody? There’s a question. There’s something he can work towards. Sherlock looks at the little bottle in his hand, the voice in his head stronger now, telling him that just one drop, and he won’t have to go stumbling about all of these memories to find what he wants, find what he needs.

He gives his head a shake and draws out a single little drop with a needle. It’s deposited with careful precision onto a slide, pressed flat to it, and slid under the microscope. At 600 magnification, he twists the knob until he’s staring at it up close and personal.

Isn’t it personal, though? He wrecked himself on this drug. He ruined what balance he had with it. Now the voice doesn’t ever go away. And here he’s pretending like he can’t here it telling him not to waste it; he’ll need at some point. But, no, he won’t, because he thinks it’ll stop him from finding something he needs to find. He doesn’t trust the unfeeling liquid anymore. Not when it has something to do with John.

But why John? He glances at the Blank, sitting in the livingroom, intelligent eyes flicking expertly over the newspaper, now separating out the crossword from the rest of it. (Sherlock will have to make him crosswords. He doubts the man will be interested in that one for long). He feels as though he’s missing something. He looks back down. The asymmetrical glob-like particles look back at him, daring him to put them to use.

Oh. Oh!

He races to his room, want forgotten as he digs among his files and finds John’s blood samples, put under a microscope and examined before Sherlock was allowed to wipe him one last time.

He runs back to the table and spreads the papers out before him. John’s doctor identified traces of globular matter in his blood, but it was determined that it would disappear over time, like the rest of it, and that it wouldn’t harm him. He looks at the doctor, now watching Sherlock with impassive eyes, as though he just knows something’s about to happen.

“Can I have some of your blood?” Sherlock says. He thinks he found it. he thinks he’s this close to knowing what happened. He’s in the thick of it, now.

“Why?”

“Because I think you have a clue.” For a moment, the defensive lock of his shoulders tighten, then he stands up and walks towards Sherlock.

“Just this once.” Sherlock nods and makes a note to remember it before he skitters around the table and back to his room, coming back with a needle he keeps hidden in his closet as a false trail for nosy brothers and nosy policemen and the first aid kit from the bathroom.

He stops and calms himself down before he approaches John. He swabs his flatmate’s upper arm and checks the needle for tampering before withdrawing and pressing a cotton ball to it. A drop of blood goes onto a clean slide and the whole package inserted under the microscope. John stands quietly next to him, and Sherlock can’t help remembering when it was someone else.

…

_“Living with your boyfriend has its perks,” Victor muses from where he’s sitting on the bed. William doesn’t respond, just hunches over his drawing, “until, of course, you break up.” Ouch. Straight for the gut._

_“Which is why I was thinking…” Normally, the phrase would be followed by something fun._

We should stop pranking each other.

We should date.

We should go drag racing.

We should have a lie in.

We should go and trick Miles’ parents.

We should have a little fun.

_ “We should try and move past this.” William just barely avoids flinching. What a way to open a conversation. _

_“William. Come on, love.” The artist ignores his blonde counterpart. The bed rustles as Victor rises._

_“Look. I get it,” he’s right behind William, hand on his back. The man just sits there, stiff. “I never should have given you Rhapsody, and I’m sorry.” William ignores him, pencil sketching frantically over the paper, trying to ignore it all._

_Victor swings to the side and kneels so that William cannot completely not see him. One hand holds Will’s jaw, the other on Victor’s knee._

_“But I don’t want to lose you completely. Let’s just get to the place where we can stay in the same room.” Will twists his face away. Then he looks back at Victor, eyes worried._

_“There are globs in my blood, now.” The admission is what Victor’s been looking for. He pushes himself up so that he can fully hug William._

_“I know. I know and I’m so sorry.”_

…

**  
  
**

Of course, they’re still there. Just like Sherlock’s are still there. Not for the first time, Sherlock wonders what kind of drug leaves a non-harmful residue in the blood for years and years. He thinks that now, in this day and age, with everything from the past being flung back into his face, that he’s ready.

He thinks he’s primed for a recall.


	17. Do I Wanna Know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally and Sherlock get respectively busy.

The case is open and shut domestic murder- nothing left but the paperwork. It can be done tomorrow. Sally fast forwards to the place she left off. On screen, Sherlock shoulders a backpack and begins to walk fairly quickly.

“And what were they like, before they were together?”

“Just as crazy. They once got into a prank war.” The camera pans and focuses on a man emerging from the building behind Sherlock and Miles (presumably). There’s a blond who shoots out of the great industrial looking doors and charges at the pair. The camera jerks back around to focus on Sherlock, who gives what looks like a sideways lope as he turns and shoots off, long legs quickly matching Victor’s speed.

“How did it end?” A laugh flairs up briefly and tamely in the voiceover as the camera abruptly switches from the chase to what looks like a cafeteria wide food fight.

“With a near suspension.” Again, the shot blinks from amidst the cooked carnage to the aftermath, where two lone, food covered college students are knocking the trash off the tables and onto the floors so that it can be sweeped  up all together.

“Didn’t they get together, right after this?”

“Oh, it took a week. Vic was still mad that William had taken a pair of scissors to his hair. He had to get it cut and everything. God, that week was weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like I said before, they were both my friends, and they were fighting with each other. The week after the food fight was stagnant and odd, because all three of us seemed to either be unsure if the other shoe to drop or if the original would lift away entirely.” To illustrate this, there’s a shot- this one silent in respect to the voiceover- of the two of them. For all the world, they seem to be circling.

“And it was the latter.” there’s a pause, then a rushed “yeah”, and Sally gets the feeling that Miles had just nodded before remembering that he could not be seen. The shot fades out and back in. This time, the camera is still focused on the two of them, but there’s a distinct difference. Before, it was all tension, and it still is in this one, but it’s sexual.

They’re in each other’s arms, lip locked. For all the strain in the atmosphere, it was almost like they were fighting. A jibe from a roommate has them breaking apart, and all you can hear for a moment is their fast, deep panting. Their eyes meet, then they look at the caller off screen, then meet again.

Leaning against the wall they were this close to screwing on, they laughed and giggled like a couple of toddlers. “Idiot” can be faintly heard as the two disappear into what Sally supposes is still Sherlock’s room.

“And this was…”

“Right before christmas break in freshman year. I’m not sure what either of them did during the break, but they did it together, because when I came back up to finish the term, it was like what they had going had fast forwarded off camera.”

The shot fades out again. The film freezes there, done with the chapter. Sally is strangely drawn to the rough sketch of the finished product she’ll probably never see. It isn’t even because she’s watching what Sherlock was like when he was eighteen or nineteen. It’s, in part, because of the way it’s made.

The background and context being relayed during what Sally envisions as a reminiscent, relaxed kitchen-table-in-the-morning conversation does wonders to the film, perfectly capturing the way the two of them go about things.

Now she’s curious. She needs to know how it ends. She skips to the last chapter and presses play, but the last scene is with the two of them, racing on a dirt track, drifting restlessly around a wide turn, the red car just inches ahead of the black one.

Again, the white text fades into the middle of the scene:

4.15.2053

That means that the three of them are just about the complete their first year of college. Of course. Of course it wouldn’t have the end, when they graduate, because this is a film project. It was probably turned in so that Miles himself could pass the class.

Sally sits back and taps her fingers on her chair. Trevor is gone- she’s done her research. He died a few months before graduation. But why? That part isn’t known, and the records are sealed. She bets it has something to do with Sherlock.

Sally’s thoughts turn to John. What does Sherlock want with him? What’s so important about someone he programmed? Why does John matter? Is there a connection between John and Victor that Sally is missing?

She can’t rule the possibility out, farfetched though it is. SHERLOCK is farfetched, but the fucker exists, anyways. It’s beginning to make her head hurt, because Victor died in the former half of 2056, when Sherlock was almost twenty-two, and it’s been eight years after the fact, with John just now coming into the picture.

The time gap is… unexplainable, because surely anyone who had it out for Sherlock or Victor would have operated on a continuous basis, not left a half mad genius to run around and possibly pick up a scent. Eight years is too much. She can’t figure it out with what she has. She needs to start with what she doesn’t know but can find out- how did Victor die? It’s an obvious statement, but the obvious must be understood before you can see the obscure.

…

Sherlock stares at the ceiling in his room. He’s lying on the bed, hand shoved under the opposite shoulder, feeling the non-different texture of his honeycomb tattoos. It’s an unconscious habit he got into shortly after the first row- the middle one- was completed. It reminds him of his brother.

…

Sherlock’s head was perched on his knees, and his body was perched on the edge of Mycroft’s bed. His arms were wrapped around his calves, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. The dark circles under his eyes intensified his face. It still had the baby fat of a cherub. The fat felt wrong to him, even though he knew that, at nine, it was perfectly normal.

Normal is something he only laid claim too when he was too tiny to exhibit abnormal behavior. Then, at nine, a few months after they got him back, he wasn’t just different, he wasn’t just something else. He was more and less at the same time. Violence and sobbing came hand in hand. Days of silence had introduced themselves along with hours of screaming. Nightmares stalked his dark hours and laughed at him from his bedroom during the day.

The police consider Sherlock a miracle- good job we got him when we did, they said behind closed doors and out of sight of the Holmes family and their prickling, intelligent gazes. They found him, he knows. One day, the man who took care of him while he was down in what he called the White Darkness rushed in and bundled him in an extra blank coat over the oatmeal jumpsuit they gave him to wear and pushed him into pleather and new car smell.

Then they were moving. The man who took care of him spoke in an ear piece and to the driver and Sherlock was calm, because he knows that, deep down, the man who took care of him was as bad as the rest of them- worse, even, because Sherlock wanted to cling to him late into the night to escape the blankness that the man willingly left him to.

The car scared him, Sherlock remembered as the perched on the edge of Mycroft’s bed and met his own eyes in the mirror and stared at the evidence of his lack of appetite in the less than average amount of muscle on his skinny arms. The car scared him because the car was where it began, all that time that he couldn’t count ago.

The man who took care of Sherlock pushed him into the seat and pushed the seat belt into the clasp and then moved on to other, more pressing things. There was a chase, thought Sherlock. There was a chase and there was a crash and there were a lot more people than there had been a moment ago. Then there was a lot of white walls and bleaching white light and beeping monitors and screaming. Then he was home, and they may have found him- but they didn’t fucking find all of him.

Which brought him back to his bare back as he sat perched on the edge of Mycroft’s bed. He couldn’t keep the plug. It was skin tone, and it felt like skin, but it did not tan like skin. So he needed to change the color and he needed to change the skin around it so that it didn’t have to tan like skin.

He had a new fear, he realized- someone touching his fake skin, either by accident or on purpose, and realizing that it was fake. Then they'll want to know why he has a circle of fake, untanned skin on his back and they’ll probe him with a thousand questions and it will be almost like those first moments after waking up in the White Darkness.

So he wants to get rid of the skin tone.

“I want a tattoo.” Sherlock said into the peaceful quiet he could never get in his own room. The scratching of Mycroft’s pencil as he wrote in his neat, little handwriting ceases. His head does not raise, but Sherlock knew he had all the attention.

“Why?”

“It doesn’t tan.” He refused to acknowledge that the plug had a name- hadn’t even learned it, because they’d all been afraid to tell him. It would fall to him to learn the name of the thing that protects the tech in his spine and his back, and he didn’t want to know. Mycroft, as always, knew what he was talking.

“No, I don’t suppose it does. What kind of tattoo did you have in mind?” He hadn’t thought of that one, but he was a very smart boy, so it took only a moment.

“A hexagon.” He suppose he could have asked for someone to develop a tanning version of his thing. But he wants Mycroft to be the one in charge. As much as he tries, sometimes he just isn’t. That’s why it must be a tattoo, and not a piece of tech. Mycroft knows how to tattoo, and he’s the only one that would put a black hexagon on an eight year old’s back. Mycroft nods and his pencil picks up speed again.

“What color do you want it?” When he said it, it was assumed that the plug would be in the middle, and that it would need to match the color of the tattoo.

“Black.”

…

Sherlock opens his eyes. He hadn’t meant to remember that, but he had touched the spine of the book, and sometimes that’s all that’s needed. It hits him like a freight train, suddenly. Victor would not have just left him- that, he knows and has known for a long time. He just didn’t want to remember that he did. No, the epiphany is that he would not have simply left him.

Meaning, he could have left a note. A little average. A little like they always do, but this is Victor, and he would have told Sherlock something. Anything. He would have. He wouldn’t have been capable of doing what he did without it.

Sherlock just has to find it.

He just has to wander into the closed off part of his mind palace and see if he can’t tame the beast there. Maybe he should go back to The House. Maybe-

Do I wanna know

If this feeling goes both ways?

Sad to see you go

Was sort of hoping that you’d stay.

Baby we both know

That the nights were mainly made for

saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day.

The lyrics float from above, and Sherlock recognizes the song as Do I Wanna Know? by the Arctic Monkeys. Sherlock sits up. The easy croon of John’s voice above him is practiced and long in the making, but he’s never sung a note. Not in all the time Sherlock’s known him.

He laughs a little bit as a he pulls his legs to him and grasps his ankles.

The voice of a practiced singer on someone who is disinclined to sing.

The hallmark of a Recall- the natural reassertion of repressed memories- is the surfacing of unexplained traits. Like singing for a man who doesn’t sing. John is Recalling. Sherlock smiles. His theory is confirmed- Recalls are very, very linked with prolonged protection from M.R.P.T.s. He thinks about Victor and how he seemed to change over the course of their relationship.

How sad he’d seemed at the end, right before it happened. How erratic he was in his last few moments. Victor… maybe he Recalled. Maybe he figured it out enough to decide on an action. He just didn’t know enough to save them both.

Sherlock gets up and moves to get dressed. He catches sight of his back in the mirror. Since Mycroft gave him his first tattoo, his older brother emblazoned on his skin the three rows of honeycomb. The rest, he has never seen.

Below the original work is an arch of roses, which form the roof of two trestles. Ivy winds and curls around the supports and descend all the way down to the small of his back, where koi swim in a pond ringed by chrysanthemums and starburst lilies.

The framework itself is tattooed to look like wrought iron base and treble clefs, while dream catchers with music notes, water drops, feathers, and beads are woven through the roses that make up the arches. Throughout it all, bees collect pollen for the hyperrealistic yellow honey combs at the top of his back.

Nature and music and art have always provided solace and shelter for the overwrought state he often worked and works himself into. It is no surprise to those who can read him that his extensive tattoo would be this work of art.

Sherlock shakes his head and pulls on an undershirt. Now is not the time for tattoos. It is a wholly unhelpful distraction.

Now is the time for focus. One wrong move, and Sherlock will step off the careful path he must walk in his mind palace. Sherlock is going to the start. He’s going to find Victor’s note.

He’s going to The House.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the song Do I Wanna Know? By the arctic monkeys. Here's the link to a you tube video.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qkrhx9pULY
> 
> I think you need to copy and paste into the search bar...


	18. Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to The House, Sally visits Sherlock's college.

He has a garage rented and in that garage is a car. It’s this that Sherlock takes.  John is in the driver’s seat, ready for the drive out to The House. Sherlock is not sure whether to be excited or not.

John is recalling, yes, but whatever he’s recalled has him verging on depressed. That’s not good. A mental break is entirely possible- could be considered likely, even- but Sherlock is hoping that whatever comes to mind (literally) is not beyond John’s ever growing capacity to absorb and compute.

The man is question is watching the city slide by, eyes searching, expression implacably analytical.

“What are you thinking about?” It isn’t a question he’s asked of anyone in years. The last person was Victor. Sherlock remembers that one in startling detail, though so many others are fuzzy.

…

Sherlock’s pencil scratched across the page, laying the groundwork for what would ultimately be a penned piece of a person of unknown origins. He had half a mind to draw a dancer- his dancer, in fact, but he would wind up watching him for ages, only to throw away the chosen pose half way through.

His dancer was that magical. Victor lived and breathed in a 4/4 tempo. There was never a time when he was utterly still, though the peace he could bring with him was only helped by the hum of life, rather than hindered, as so many others were wont to do.

Sherlock has passed long and peaceful hours drawing in the corner of a dancehall while Victor practiced steps for this or that performance. He’s watched in disguised awe as those warm and limber muscles bent and coiled the way Sherlock’s never did.

After all, his skill on the floor came from the necessity of balance- something he notoriously lacked in his younger days. It was a symptom, not a quirk, when he realized that his inability to stand up right probably has as much to do with his Asperger’s as it has with the fact that he’s abnormally tall for his age.

It was something that must be solved, not grown into, after that revelation. So Sherlock devised a way to do better- dancing.  He hated it- going round and round, falling over and over, no one but his own embarrassment and the tutor to keep him company. He did it though. He didn’t trip anymore.

But Victor, he was something else. He was beautiful and better and so naturally prone to the flow that Sherlock couldn’t help but watch him practice, just as Victor cannot help but watch Sherlock draw.

Now, Victor sings, his tenor voice washing over Sherlock as he sketches a girl with a cat’s tail and fanciful proportions about the head. It’s just the basics- the only shading on the tail and hair and ears and hardly realistic, but little, insignificant sketches like these helps. In the background:

_All around me are familiar faces,_

_Worn out faces,_

_Worn out places_

_Bright and early are the daily races_

_Going nowhere_

_Going nowhere_

_The tears are filling up their glasses_

_No exception_

_No exception_

_Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrows_

_No tomorrow_

_No tomorrow_

__

_And I find it kind of funny_

_I find it kind of sad…_

__

He dies off there. Sherlock immediately turned around and found himself being watched.

“What are thinking?” Sherlock said when he realizes that Victor had not met his eyes because he was staring at Sherlock’s drawing. Sometimes it eluded him- the answer to the simplest question when it pertained to the person he should know best.

“What’s her name?” He looks back at the paper, the stark contrast of black and white making the girl a little unreachable, though the inking was not even started yet. When he does pick up the pen, he knew that the girl’s one visible cat ear would be nearly indistinguishable from the wild fall of wavy hair.

“Raven,” Sherlock said as he stared at her bare back. She looked over one shoulder. The only stitch of cloth covering her was a tight jock. Her spine was blacked out. You could only see one hand. Sherlock added a few final touches before picking up the eraser.

“I like it.” Sherlock didn’t know why- no background, disproportionate face and head, oddly placed left foot, stiff curl of the tail.

“Thank you.” He makes himself say. He long ago came to grips with the fact that, when it’s your artwork, it will never be finished. It will never be perfect. You will always hate some part of it no matter how good it actually is. It falls to the artist to know when to leave it- to abandon it, really.

Sherlock finishes erasing and blows on the eraser bits. He picks up his pen. Victor carefully slid his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, ready to withdraw at any moment. Sherlock could be shifty like that.

…

Sherlock blinks, back in the presence once more. He had forgotten that drawing. He had forgotten how, when he wrote the cursive name alongside the body in pen, he had made a mistake, so the a in Raven actually has a little loop between it and the capital R.

He remembers how he had sat there, shifting, trying not to, as Victor had examined the finished drawing closely before declaring it lovely. Sherlock had opened his mouth to contradict, but closed it again, reminding himself that it’s all in his head.

The English countryside cuts cleanly away to Holmes land. The tall, wrought iron gate an old greeting. Sherlock rolls down the window of his very, very old model of an Aston Martin- a gift from Victor himself- and punched in the long string of numbers. The gate drew back, and Sherlock drove through the tunnel of stretching trees.

When the tall and familiar trunks disappear at last, Sherlock doesn’t stop in front of the great mansion, though something tells him that he should go in and pay his respects. He won’t, though. The mansion itself is something Sherlock avoids.

They didn’t always live in it, Sherlock knows. When he was younger, they lived in the city- a big house in the city, but the city all the same. Sherlock went to a private school and he dressed in a little suit with shorts instead of pants every day. Everyday he talked to no one he didn’t absolutely have to. Every day he tripped on something. Everyday he went home in a car.

Then the car crashed.

Sherlock forces his thoughts away from the memory. He needn’t relive it twice. All the same, they moved after that- after Sherlock came back and he was known to scream in the night and run off during the day, the Holmes needed a great big pen for him, so they purchased a mansion in the countryside and kept the house in the city as well. It was always the goal that Sherlock re-orientate and move on. To sell the city house would be to allow him to forget it.

Sherlock maneuvers the car around the great watchman of a home and continues to drive deep into Holmes territory, slowing the speed of the Aston Martin to reacclimatise. The second time Sherlock lived in the Holmes mansion was the summer after Uni. After Victor died. He didn’t dare touch his old room. He had sense and introspection enough to know that the nightmares that had chased him from the chamber the first time would do so again- only the content would change.

He did, however, make use of the rather ignored little cottage deeply ingrained in tall trees and undisturbed nature. He parks the car in the circular cement circle.

“Stay here.” Sherlock says. John nods, eyes busy cataloguing everything he can. Sherlock briefly wonders what happens after he has catalogued Sherlock, but ignores the thought. It’s not about him.

The detective leaves the car and, with an imperceptible fortifying breath, strides over the rather overgrown footpath and up to the front door. he pulls the key from his pocket and lets himself in. Oh good lord. The memories come rushing back, pushing at their doors- tightly locked, sealed entrances of linked mausoleums. Doors Sherlock never intended to open.

The smell of dust is heavy in the air, and white sheets cover old paintings and furniture. Plastic crates hold dozens and dozens of paintings and works, all of which belongs to Sherlock. He never hung his own works- made him want to burn them to the ground and the house with it.

The detective runs his hand along the hallway as he exits the livingroom. He doesn’t even look at the kitchen to his right. It holds nothing he needs. Halfway down the hallway to his right is the bathroom, and, right next to that, the laundry room. To his left is a second bedroom, and at the end of the hallway is his own chosen sleeping place. It’s to the unused bedroom that he goes, now.

It holds many things- a desk, extra lamps, more boxes of the memorabilia he had collected during uni. It also holds the few things of Victor’s he was allowed to keep. While they were going to uni, they were busy people- Victor with his performances, Miles with his film projects, and Sherlock with his art shows, on top of the generic school work they all had.

They sometimes only saw each other on the way to bed or the coffee machine.

Because of this, and because Victor was often Sherlock’s muse, the detective had taken dozens of little videos of Victor dancing or singing. He’d play them back when he was blocked or lonely or frantic. Before Rhapsody entered the equation, it was enough. All of these videos are here. It is not these that Sherlock is after, though.

No, he is after a couple of big, black cubic cases in the back. He carefully moves aside boxes and lifts them up, one on top of the other. This is the only thing Victor could have left his note in. He carries the boxes out to the car and stows them in the trunk. Then he recalls something he might need, and goes back for that. A few more things join the fingerprint locked cubes before Sherlock settles into the driver’s seat.

John is watching him with piercing blue eyes. His expression is blank, but those eyes have divined something important.

“Yes?”

“You’re sad.” Sherlock starts to laugh. And laugh, because John is recalling, and he understands what Sherlock knew he might never be acquainted with: emotion.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” then he rotates the Aston Martin and speeds away from The House as fast as he heart can possibly propel him. The mausoleums are not enough to hold those memories when he’s so close to their physical remains.

…

The University of the Arts, London, England, is an old, old school that has expanded beyond its namesake. It’s senior building have the facade of a sixteenth century boarding school. It’s junior ones possessing a newer brand of majestic. Sally parks her car and finds her way to the administration building.

As she makes her way along the sleek and streamline main hall, she sees a woman in a skirt suit watching her. As though waiting to be noticed, she then approaches, her old and wrinkled face spreading into a smile.

“Miss Donovan?”

“Ah, yes.” The woman holds out a papery soft, but still, strong hand.

“Vivian Banneker. I’m to show you what you want to see.”

“I’m investigating two students who were here six or so years ago. One of them died right before graduation. William Sharlotte and Victor Trevor?”

“Yes… let’s see now. I remember those two. Nearly got expelled freshman year for a cafeteria food fight. They were thick as thieves. Come along, then, I suppose you’ll want to see their records.” It’s a good thing Sally called in ahead of time, or this would have taken her a far sight longer.

“Are the people who taught them still here?”

“Most of them. Between the two of them, there wasn’t a teacher in either of their departments who hadn’t spoken to them at some point. The ones you’ll want, though, would be Mr. Trevor’s dance instructor and Mr. Sharlotte’s art teacher.”

They walked in silence for a time until they came to the back of the administration building, where they took the elevator to the third floor and entered a locked portion of it.  Mrs. Banneker retrieves a cart and a foldable footstool. She then leads them along the grey, clinical, well-lit shelves.

They travel to the left. Sally looks up and realizes that the shelves are marked by the years. The farther they go, the more stuff on the shelves. Theses days, the college does most things digitally, but every graduating class has something tangible, and it’s all kept here.

When they reach the shelf with the label 2056, Mrs. Banneker leads them down the aisle. Presently, she stops.

“Here we are.” She unfolds the stool, steps up, and Sally helps her retrieve the box marked “Trevor, Victor”. The box- fingerprint locked- goes onto the cart as the woman moves them back towards the a little way. “Sharlotte, William” is low enough that she does not need the footstool to haul it off the shelves.

Donovan follows quietly as Mrs. Banneker leads them out of the archives and to her office. She settles her guest with the boxes, which are opened by touching her fingertip to the little indentation on the lid of each cube.

“I’ve a few errands to run, but I’ll be back before you finish that, Miss Donovan.

“Thank you.” Sally settles down to read. And read. And read.

Good god, there’s nothing here. It's just records of what classes the two of them took and what classes they tested out of and volunteer hours and recordings for when one or both of them got themselves into trouble.

Just as she sets down the last paper, the door opens again.

“Finished?” Mrs. Banneker says.

“Yes.”

“Good, the teachers I told you of are ready for you right now.” Donovan walks alongside Mrs. Banneker until they reach another building. Sally feels the need to move on, but she knows it’s not going to happen. If she wants to know how Victor died- a fact that’s sealed- any time soon, she’ll have to play the game and not go directly for what she wants.

According to Sherlock’s art teacher, he was heavily quiet and rarely spoke to people. According to Victor’s dance teacher, he was the same, but he was definitely in love with Victor. Almost to a disturbing level.

Donovan walks with Mrs. Banneker out of the dance building. It’s early afternoon, and Donovan is no closer to finding out how Victor died. Maybe. Or, she could be on the cusp of everything, depending on whether or not Banneker is convinced of Donovan’s good intentions.

There is something bothering the woman, now. She’s quieter, seemingly absorbed, and she glances at Sally ever now and then.

“Listen,” Banneker says as she walks Donovan to her car. The detective gives her a full measure of attention.

“The records were sealed so that Mr. Sharlotte would graduate without the full weight of what happened on his head. The university would have suffered as well,” she’s hedging, setting it up so that what she’s about to say doesn’t come across as bad as it is. Sally waits. She thought she’d have to fish for this, but, no. It’s come to her.

“The boys were racing. They were going around a turn, and one car flipped. We don’t know how it happened, or if anyone did anything nefarious, but there was a lot of speculation. Some thought it was murder. Others, suicide.” Sally absorbs this, then nods. She puts on her most grateful and genial face.

“Thank you, Mrs. Banneker.” The woman gives a tight smile.

“Just be careful, okay?” Sally smiles and gets into her car. As she peels carefully out of the parking lot and merges with traffic on the way back to her house, she can’t get the face of Mrs. Banneker out of her head. How there seemed to be a trace of fear.

Then there’s the answer she’d been looking for.

Victor Trevor died in car crash that Sherlock was involved in. Which one was it? What did Victor have to kill himself over? According to every teacher she’d talked to, according to every bit of information she’d been able to dig up, Victor was a happy, potentially great dancer.

And there was a lot of information. Old practice and performance videos, the transcripts, doctor’s records, other memorabilia. Victor had no reason to kill himself, but Sherlock might. She wouldn’t put it past the detective to try and kill either of them.

Victor may have been bright, but Sherlock was his polar opposite in key ways in Uni. They were both artists, but Sherlock took pen to paper and Victor took movement to music. What Sherlock did quietly and invisibly, Victor did loudly and publicly. Jealousy, maybe? Something tells her that Sherlock would have been too smart and too able to get Victor’s status to resort to something so pointless and mundane.

The question remains, though. Who flipped the car and why?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, I finished this chapter two minutes ago. Let me know what you think!  
> P.S. The song is Mad World, by Gary Jules.


	19. Seize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock detects, Sally is confronted, and John does his thingy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKSGIVING UPDATE!!!!!!

Sherlock unloaded the things he got from The House, John carrying half the weight. They set everything on the kitchen table. Sherlock takes himself back to his own room to root around in the wardrobe. He brings back one last case.

“John,” Sherlock says, hands resting on the first unopened container. He can feel the energy zipping underneath his skin.

“Sherlock,” he’s learned to respond like that to every inquiry made of him; it leaves the most options for conversation.

“Tell no one what you see.” He watches carefully as John nods his head. He means it, Sherlock deduces. He opens the first container.

…

Donovan’s pen zips across paperwork with the speed and efficiency of someone who has spent far too much time doing this dull, dull part of police work. Hair escapes her ponytail and falls into her face as she works, but she’s far too concentrated to remove it.

For once, the paperwork is a welcome distraction. The stack she started with has been considerably depleted by the time someone knocks on the frame of her door. Sally looks up. It’s the secretary. He’s new, and Sally still doesn’t know his name. They should wear nametags.

“Someone here to see you.”

“Name?”

“Said you wouldn’t know it, but Miles sent her.” Oh, god. Um. Well, this could be a bit tricky.

“Send her in, then.” Calmly, she slots all the completed documents into a place she’ll be able to find again, fixes her hair back into the ponytail she had it in this morning, and waits.

“Morning,” her guest says. “American” is the first word to flash across Sally’s mind. “Butch” is the second, and “southern” the third.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, miss…?”

“August, and I got a call a bit ago from Miles. He had… the funniest story to tell me.” Danger writes itself on the list in Sally’s head. “He said… that someone he didn’t know tricked their way into his house and stole something. A film project, in fact, from freshman year,” the door closed softly behind Miss August. While I would normally have no problem with this- it is his life, after all, friends though we are, he was rather neurotic.”

“A bad kind of neurotic, too.” August takes a step closer, dark cat’s eyes boring into Sally’s.

“I’m going to need it back.”

“It’s for an investigation.” Sally stands, needing to be on some kind of even ground. She should not feel like an ant in her own damn office.

“Excuse my french, but bullshit. No one knows you have it. Not your bosses, not your coworkers, except for maybe that bloke who distracted Miles enough for you to steal from him. The fact that you did steal- didn’t ask, didn’t get a warrant- tells me that you couldn’t. So, before I blow you and this whole department sky high with this very, very juicy story about an officer who plays dirty like a common criminal, I’m going to need the project back.”

Sally knows she has to give it back if she wants to come out not utterly crushed, but there’s something spineless in giving it up now. Still, something tells her that the biracial, tall woman across from her can and will be extreme if pushed, and Sally has clearly pushed.

“It’s at my house. Come back tomorrow.”

“Of course. Or, I could just break in and take it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” With a smirk and a near wink, Miss August steps out of the office and walks down the hallway. Sally watches her go, and notices that she turns a few heads. Butch or no, the woman is attractive and well dressed in an uptown downtown way.

…

Sherlock stares at the violotech screen. It’s an older model- the latest, six years ago. Machinery and wires is open all around him. The back of the helmet Victor used to race in has been disassembled in one place about the size of the quarter. Sherlock’s been poking around at the tech hidden beneath the near unbreakable plates.

He has, as he guessed, found the note.

On the screen is his long dead lover. He seems sad, and unable to meet the camera’s unfeeling gaze for more than a few moments. His eyes are red rimmed.

“Hey, William,” he starts. he pulls in his lips a bit, and Sherlock knows he’s bitten the bottom one. It was a nervous tick Sherlock once spent hours dissecting. At the end of the examination, he surmised that Victor’s lip thing is a lot like when Sherlock used to twist his hands when he was younger.

“I… ah…” He looks at the camera, then looks away.

“To hell with it, I’m not real. Until recently, I thought I had a history of debt and drug use. So these people I thought I owed told me that if I would go and keep an eye on you, then I’d be free of debt. So I did.” Sherlock holds himself very, very still.

“I never counted on what would happen once I did get past your guard. I started to doubt the truth of the debt. A few hours ago, I realized I was fake- programmed to be someone I’m not. No, I don’t know names or purposes, which is why I’m doing this now. I’m supposed to stay close to you- get you hooked on Rhapsody and never let you go. I don’t know why, but I do know that if I don’t stop me, I’ll stop you.” He looks into the camera again before drawing his eyes down again.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I have to break the chain, Sherlock. I can’t do to you what I’m supposed to do. So… so this is my sorry for everything. I’m sorry we ever met. I’m not sorry we fell in love. I’m sorry I ever gave you Rhapsody or tricked you or reported back on you. I’m sorry for everything I did wrong and know that there will be others.” Sherlock jumps. Others?

“There will be others that care. There will be others that need you as much as you need them. Sappy as it is, remember that, and don’t follow me down. I… I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

“Goodbye.”

The camera winks to black.

Sherlock closes his eyes and counts to ten, pushing furiously for calm when his drug calls for him.

Just a little bit, it says.

“Shut up.” Sherlock snaps out loud. He found the note, and confirmed what he suspected. Now, he just has to figure out what Rhapsody does. What is so important about Rhapsody that whoever programmed Victor would push him to give it to Sherlock?

Sherlock forces himself to organize everything he’s learned in the last few days.

Victor was a blank.

The people who programmed Victor also distribute Rhapsody.

Rhapsody leaves globs in the blood and is found in both Sherlock’s and John’s blood.

John has shown no sign of addiction, though he should. Even without memory, the body would crave it.

Therefore, Rhapsody may serve a dual purpose that Sherlock hasn’t figured out yet, if he, who has had it, has the same globs that John has, who did not take Rhapsody.

Maybe… Oh.

Sherlock picks up the phone and calls his brother.

“Yes?”

“My medical records.”

“What about them?”

“I need them. I need to see the results of the blood tests.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them.” As much as Sherlock despises being treated like a child, he would probably lose his records or destroy them if he was in charge of them. This, and this only, is the reason Sherlock doesn’t have his own records.

“All right.” He hangs up before Mycroft can continue the conversation.

Half an hour later, Sherlock has a folder in his hands. He closes the briefcase he pulled it out of and makes his way back to the kitchen table. He spreads the papers on the table, scanning the records for hospital visits, vaccinations, etc. from before the wreck. Then he goes to the gamut of tests they ran on him right after they got him back. There.

According to the blown up picture on the paper and the doctor’s records, Sherlock had globs in his blood after he was taken, but not before. John has globs in his blood. Vic… well, he had once said that it was normal. He once said it was supposed to happen, but Sherlock is willing to bet that whatever it is that induces a sensation of safety right after being hooked up to the Machine is what the globs are.

That is the only substance all four of them have had in them before Rhapsody. He wonders at the use of such a thing. What’s the point? Why make someone feel safe when they won’t feel anything in a moment? Why care about Blanks enough to make it Okay with a capital O?

Sherlock doesn’t think it’s that anyone actually cares. He knows what the globs are for- it bridges the gap between organic and technologic data. What if it does more? What if, in addition to making whoever is in the chair feel good, it also reacts differently with different ranges? Sherlock thinks of the various bad trips he’d had on Rhapsody, and how Victor never seemed to have them. It always seemed to go great for him.

What if it’s an experiment?

What if, once Sherlock was recovered, and they couldn’t risk a second kidnapping, they instead decided to watch him and test him? Sherlock has a range of one. That’s the lowest you can get. By all rights, he should have been useless, because he can’t be programmed, can’t be altered the way John can. And yet, they took him anyways.

So what if Sherlock’s life is just one grand experiment? It explains why they would want him in the first place. Maybe they meant to be caught. Maybe they were just laying the groundwork for a series of test to be done years after the fact. Sherlock glances at the papers at his fingertips, the black helmet within arms reach, the vomit of wires and pens and microscopes. He needs to get some of this up off the table.

To the livingroom, then.

Half an hour later, as he pushes the last tack into place, and Ms. Hudson steps into the living room.

“Sherlock, dear, you have a visitor,” Sherlock looks up and sees a tall woman with a shaved head, some seriously sharp cheekbones, and a button down.

“What is it, Beck?”

“Here I thought you wouldn’t remember me. You don't call, you don’t write…”

“Neither do you.” Sherlock retorts, stepping away from his wall.

“In the interest of not killing each other, I’m going to keep this brief. Sally Donovan’s looking into you. She went to Miles.” Sherlock’s nose wrinkles. Few people know that he and Miles ever knew each other. The first time they met, Sherlock realised that Miles had a lot of family problems and some mental issues. Sherlock’s been a bit protective of his friend for some years now because of it, and still checks on him even though they don’t see each other anymore.

Miles, in Sherlock’s eyes, is off limits.

“Thank you,” Beck August spins around on one foot and, with a wink and a smirk, is gone. Only now does Sherlock become aware of the racket from up the stairs. The detective races up the stairs. This is no normal noise.

John is on the floor, seizing. Oh, god. Sherlock grips him in strong hands and turns him onto his side. He knew John would Recall eventually. He didn’t think he’d do it like this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Beck's a bit piano in the bushes, but the characters were college students. They had to have had friends outside of each other.


	20. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's just a little bit crazy. Donovan keeps on keepin' on.

 

Beck August strode into a police station for the second time in as many days. It’s cold out, the wind biting through her jacket, so she’s got a smaller one under the black wool regular. A subtle purple pattern gives interest to the otherwise nondescript outermost garment. An orange and black scarf patterned in plaid and lion’s tooth covers her from collar to jaw. Her head, freshly shaved, is capped off by a knit black beanie. Her slacks and shoes complete the outfit, and remind Sally of Sherlock. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.

Augusts’ roguish smirk is cast her way as she hands over the little drive she lifted out of Miles’ house. It disappears under August’s slick exterior.

“If you were smart, Ms. Donovan, you would not speak to Miles again and you would leave Sherlock well enough alone.” This catches her attention. She knows from her research that August and Sherlock had never been friends, had known each other in a “friend of a friend” way, but she’s getting some very protective vibes off the woman. That begs poking at.

“Why?” August just smirks before whirling around and striding out the door. Her coat comes down to mid-ass, but it may as well have had the length of Sherlock’s belstaff, as it’s every bit as dramatic.

So. August has something to protect, and it isn’t Sherlock. It could be Miles, but then she would not have included the last part. No, there’s something Sally’s missed. Something instrumental, or at least a big piece of the picture.

Sherlock and Sally met nearly six years ago, and since then Sherlock has easily tricked his way into the graces and trust of dozens of people. He’s pickpocketed their brains and their bodies and made them think he’s trustworthy. For whatever reason, the same man who calls out over-personal deductions is a fucking tease. Jesus, what a combination.

She stands. She needs to find someone else, someone who isn’t under suspicion. Someone… devious. The word slides into her head as easily as day. Of course. No one here’s as devious as Sherlock, but the man is not unequalled in that regard. There must be someone out there who can play the game as well as he can, if not better. Sally stands up, cracking her back as she goes.

There’s only one person within reach.

 

…

More than a day later, John opens his eyes and focuses on the roof. He turns his head and notices that he is in bed, his mouth feels nasty, and he has a lot more memories than he did… yesterday? The day before that? Doesn’t matter. He can figure it out in a minute. Now, though, now he has a burning question. It sits in the forefront and dead center of his mind, begging him to answer.

Who am I?

The question of millions of tweens worldwide, he muses with some humor. Humor? When did that happen? When did he get a sense of-

…

_“Vince?” he turned his head, eyes connecting with a man in a bed with an IV in his arm._

_“Yeah, it’s me.”_

_“But why? We’re not friends.” The worry was evident in his dark eyes. They peered from underneath the bandages in fear and in mental pain as he struggled to remember why Vince Albert, the man he didn’t really like and would never be friends with, would be the one to sit at his bedside._

_“You’ve had an accident,” Vince explained calmly, London accent thick and comforting. Why? He didn’t even like Vince._

_“And you’ve lost some of your memory,” Vince continued as he reached out and laid a thick and callused hand against the arm of the man in the bed. The heart monitor, which had been beeping with increased frequency, suddenly dropped in the calmness brought by the touch. The man in the bed didn’t understand it…_

_“Who… who am I?” The man said, head twisting back and forth, looking around. He doesn't even know where he is._

_“Ah, the question of tweens everywhere,” it startled a laugh from the man in the bed. He hadn’t known Vince had a sense of humor._

__

…

John groans as he comes back from the memory. He was Vince. He’s sure of it. At some point, he was in a hospital with a man who didn’t remember him and made that joke to… to distract him, to calm him down and brace him for the rest of his forgotten life.

He… god, who was he when he was Vince, though? The information keeps flowing. He was a soldier. A soldier on tour, a soldier who- he jumps up and pulls off his shirt (hands crossed at the hem, tug straight up. He didn’t do it like that yesterday…). There it is. Proof of life. A scar, shiny and pink, winks at him as he cranes to see it where it’s emblazoned on his shoulder.

He was on tour and he was with the man… Isaac. Yes. He and Isaac were soldiers on tour and Isaac got his head hurt and John got shot in the shoulder so they sent them to the hospital and they John recovered first so they let him out of his bed to sit by Vince’s bed to…

_Gain his trust._

The voice in the back of his head tells him. Oh, he didn’t know he had a voice.

_You have more than one._

But why?

_Proof of life._

The fuck…?

_Calm down. He’s coming._

Who’s come-

The door opens and Sherlock is there, bare hand wrapped around the handle. They just stare at each other.

_Sudden type, isn’t he?_

**He’s certainly my type, a new voice chimes in.**

Who the hell are you?

**Hmm. You know, it’s fun to make you guess.**

_Don’t irritate him. It’s important that we remain calm._

**Don’t nag.**

Both of you shut up!

“Tea?” Sherlock says, having finished his staring.

_**I like tea, they say at the same time.** _

“Please.”

**You have far too many manners.**

_Shut the fuck up._

**Or what? You’re bodiless.**

_Bet._

John moves to the exit. Instead of stepping back, Sherlock stays exactly where he is, merely twisting so that he’s pressed against the door, rather than blocking the exit. John walks past him. He wonders if the reason for these voices is because whole personalities were downloaded into his head. If so, where are the others?

_Only the stronger ones have survived so long in limbo._

**That makes me as strong as you.**

_It makes you strong. It is unknown whether or not one or both of us will be beaten out._

Are there any more?

_Probably. I would like to point out that there is only so much room in your head. What personalities still remain will likely fade into the ether within a few days if they do not emerge soon. They will be too weak to do otherwise._

John sits down in his chair, distracted by the all knowing voice in his head.

 **He’s not all knowing, he’s just annoying. ASS.** As if compelled, John glances at Sherlock’s ass as the suited detective steps into the kitchen to make the tea he promised. Just as quickly, he looks down at his hands.

**Come on. Even you should know he looks good.**

_Good is an objective term._

Both of you shut up!

**And if we don’t? What are you going to do about it?**

He said shut up. A new, deeper voice that John instantly knows to be deadly rumbles at the two. There is silence.

John’s breathing quickens as panic instantly seizes his mind.

 _In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, John, do it._ He does. He dislikes this new voice immensely. It feels like he could kill at any minute, like there’s a restless energy that radiates from the voices words and rolls through the whole of John.

The voices are mercifully working together for the duration of the time it takes John to calm back down.

Do you have names?

_Vince._

**Cyrus.**

Magnus.

John looks up just in time to see Sherlock stride back into the room, two cups of tea in hand. He sets one down in front of John, along with an apple and a tall glass of water.

While he’s waiting for the tea to cool, John drinks the water and eats the apple.

“So.” He says, prompting with his eyes for Sherlock to explain.

_I know everything you need to know._

Shut up.

“So you Recalled.”

“Yes.”

“Notice anything yet?” There’s something about him that Sherlock can’t deduce. It’s as if his personalities are switching. As far as Sherlock can tell though, the vast majority of the Datapack personalities are too far back to really surface, and even if there isn’t, they should only be strong enough to meld into one super personality. None of this multi shit.

“No.” _Good. Let him keep guessing. You don’t know which direction he’s going to swing._

**Hopefully for the home team.**

Let him swing in whatever direction he wants. We will not let you fall.

He is the reason you are all still here, I think.

_Oh, we know, but you’re an anomaly. You know how he loves to experiment._

Oh… okay. John says and focuses back on his tea and on Sherlock’s voice. He can do this. He can keep a secret. Or three.

**Heh.**

John notices that Sherlock’s eyes are boring into him, that analytical look on his face giving away the fact that he knows there is something different, something that bears pursuing and dissecting. John resolutely does not break his gaze, even though he so desperately wants to run away. They’ll throw him in a mad house or stick him back in the Chair. They’ll poke around his mind and take away his friends. He’ll- friends?

_Well, we do live in the same mind. It wouldn’t be beneficial to anyone if we were to be enemies._

All are my enemies, Magnus growls.

_Not the point._

Shut up. John thinks extra hard at them. Sherlock is still looking at him, and he is still looking at Sherlock.

 _Sloppy_ , Vince admonishes, _if you’re going to stare at him, don’t get distracted._

**I’d stare at him all day.**

_Not the point._

“Tired?” Sherlock asks. It’s a trick question. The answer is not important, it’s everything about the answer.

“A bit,” John admits. Sure enough, as though he has spelled himself, exhaustion seems to weigh his limbs down. He sets the teacup aside and rises, rounding the chair and making for the stairs. He feels a bit unsteady, but he doesn’t dare ask for help or even allow himself to consider the options.

Don’t be weak.

He’s not being weak, he’s-

If it gets the detective, what does it matter?

Shut up.

It seems that Vince and Magnus are in agreement as John hauls himself up the flight and into his bed. He’s out in a moment.

…

“Funny. I never thought I’d have the pleasure,” the woman says as she takes another sip of red wine. Her client is uncomfortable. Lovely, strong boned, handsome, and uncomfortable. Good. She likes them on their toes.

“Right. Will you, though?”

“Hmm… for a price.”

“What price is that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a bit harder to tell exactly what this kind of work will come out to. And it’s not as fun. Donovan’s brows draw together in confusion, her eyes instantly comprehending the double entendre.

“But I thought-”

“Not for this game, love. Too messy, that way.” Donovan seems to realize who she’s talking to, because she immediately drops her gaze again and resolves to not ask any more personal questions.

“I’ll give you the price when I finish. Don’t worry, it’ll be fair.” Donovan nods. Fair’s good. She can do fair.

“Until next time.” Then she’s gone, wine glass with her. For a moment, Donovan feels as though she’s just done something terrible. Then she pushes the feeling out of her head. She’s got far too much on her plate, right now.


	21. Astral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's headmates are being themselves, August goes looking for a distraction, and Sherlock is Sherlocking.

 

She knows she should be at home- really anywhere but here- but she can’t bring herself to do something useful. She sits in the corner, leaned up against the wall, and watches people. The bar’s dim, and people talk lowly. It’s one of the nicer ones, with an eating area beyond the counter and a low, nondescript stage beyond that.

Sporadic bursts of laughter bubble from every direction every few moments, filling the space between the band’s sets. They were playing a variety of the softer rocks a few minutes ago. They’ll probably be back on in a bit, crooning about ten cent pistols. Usually, August loves the semi-calm ambience. She usually enjoys listening to people sing on stage and people eat as tables and flirt between the lines of their conversations. It’s not helping though.

She should be talking to someone, telling them what happened and how she has to make funeral arrangements because she’s the only one available. She looks at her hand. She’d found it, after the fact. She’d found it after she’d raged and silently screamed through the house. She’d found it when she tore through the drawers and disemboweled the closet and gutted the mattress.

A little velvet box had sat amid the not-quite-destroyed wreckage. It had glinted at her, mocking her for her lateness. She’d dug her nails into her scalp and cried till she passed out. Now she’s just heavy. The ring isn’t on her finger, but every time she sees her hand she is reminded why.

Onstage, the band is back from their break, doing a flawless rendition of “Hallelujah”. Her eyes glaze over as she gets lost in their memories and how he’d felt in every aspect. In the Tesco, at a concert, in bed wrapped around her and, at times, in her. It’s not as if it’d been perfect she thinks, trying to consolidate herself.

She had a temper and, when pushed, so did he. They’d had long, low-voiced fights, batches of grudge holding and tearful shouting matches. They’d fought and they’d loved and they were disgustingly in love and, when they’d learned to communicate better, it was disgustingly obvious that their fucking was more than sex.

Now he’s dead. Oh god. The realization is not new but it hits her like fresh acid. She grinds her teeth together. She will not break down again. Not until she’s in the privacy of their home, anyways.

“Is this seat taken?” a voice says. August looks up. A woman, brown hair pushed back from her face but otherwise untouched. She’s dressed a bit like Beck- slacks and a button down- she’s clearly at home in the heels she’s wearing. Her teal blue shirt is open enough that it’d be painfully obvious that Beck’s being disrespectful, should she glance down now.

Still, the woman’s entry has startled August, so she gives her a clinical once over before thinking about it.

“No.” She muscles past the frozen feeling in her chest. Beck dismisses the woman as she takes a seat, ordering something that’s probably sophisticated and proceeds to sip it slowly.

“They’ve gotten better,” August turns to look at her again, confused. She had slid back into her morose thoughts the moment the woman had stopped speaking. The song’s changed, and they’re playing “Run Right Back”. She briefly wonders if they make anything original and decides that she’d like to listen if they did.

Playing american rock/pop is fine, but she’s all for new songs. Not that she’d be able to listen to them right now, anyways. She feels like she’ll never enjoy music again. That’s what they did together, in the beginning- trade songs and debate lyrics like the nerds they were.

“Yeah,” she half grunts. She takes a sip of her Coke.

“Do you know if these are originals?” The woman is trying to draw her into conversation, Beck realizes numbly. Suddenly, that sounds like a good idea. Conversation is distraction. Distraction means she doesn’t have to feel the full force of this grief for a while.

“No, none of it,” She says, giving the woman her full attention and ignoring how she’d once made almost the exact same reply to him, back when they’d first met. “Though these are good choices.” Arsonist’s Lullaby starts up. On instinct, Beck hums the beginning. Then she stops, abruptly remembering the time she’d improvised lyrics involving math and how much it sucks to the tune of the song. He’d damn near pissed himself, he laughed so hard.

“You know, you look like you could use a distraction,” she turns her attention back to the woman. Yeah. Yes she could.

A voice hisses angrily about betrayal as she lets herself be drawn in.

“Yes, I could.”

…

John wakes up again considerably more rested and ready for a shower. He pulls himself out of bed, not quite remembering what went on before he went to sleep. He gathers clothing and totters down the stairs and into the bathroom.

 _I suggest you do not change your routine anymore than you usually do. The game will be up if he deduces our presence_. Right. They happened.

He turns on the water and adjusts the temperature.

_You’re accustomed to much colder water than that._

**Quit being such a pain in the ass. Everyone needs a hot shower.**

_There is not proof of that._

Guys, he mentally growls as he steps into the scalding stream of water. He relishes the burning sensation on his skin.

_Hot water dehydrates skin._

Shut up. John snaps. He’s had enough. He needs to fucking wake up before he starts getting nagged by a goddamn pseudo-mommy.

_I am not a pseudo anything, and I’ll say what I like._

**Sure you can. In here,** Cyrus’s teasing voice elbows its way to the forefront of John’s mind.

**Out there, though, you have to go through John.**

_John knows that I have the answers,_ Vince sniffs.

John is his own person and you will not destroy peace with useless chatter over hot water.

**Oh, it’s very important, John. Useful as Vince is, he also hates being powerless, which sucks for you.**

_I am not powerless._

**You’re as powerless as he makes you.**

_Am-_

Shut the fuck up. You three might be awake, but I am not.

With the dead silence in his head, John relaxes and washes himself and his hair. It’s a relief.

 _You have five minutes before you exceed the range of time you spend in the shower,_ Vince observes from the confines of John’s head.

The doctor climbs out and pulls on clothes. He twists his shoulder the wrong way, unfortunately, and a sharp twinge rips through the starburst scar.

He reaches across and grips it.

_You aren’t hurt. It just feels that way._

Real fucking helpful, he bites out as he grips tighter at the area.

_The bullet you were shot with went all the way through. The gunshot wound injured muscle, tissue, and nerves. It’s fairly recent, but you’re fully healed. It’s possible that you lost some movement due to the placement of the bullet. I doubt you suffered a high amount of blood loss._

You weren’t there?

_No._

The process for taking care of an old shoulder wound suddenly pops up out of the limbo of his past.

 _Yes. That’s a good idea,_ Vince agrees.

John carefully manipulates his shirt down and then up around his arm before quickly sliding it and his pants and trousers into place. He leaves the bathroom after discarding the towel in the laundry basket.

He pulls the paracetamol from the shelf behind the mirror and makes his way to the kitchen.

_You could have gotten water from the sink._

Shut up.

_Aye. Say that when you’re confused._

**Get off your high horse, Vince. Nobody’s got fucking time for that** , Cyrus snaps, as irritated at the nitpicking as John is. The man gets water and downs two tablets.

His hair is wet and drips down the back of his neck as he turns and sees that Sherlock is perched at the table, looking at him from above his microscope, back rail straight, eyes coldly deducing.

Oh, god, he’ll find out and then he’ll put John back in the Chair and he’ll get rid of them and-

ENOUGH, Magnus roars. HE WILL DO NOTHING YOU DO NOT PERMIT.

_We can’t be sure of that. It’s not as if he’s never harmed anyone._

**Life is a series of chances.** It’s the first intelligent thing Cyrus has said.

**I’m not unintelligent.**

_You think with your figurative dick._

**Wouldn’t that actually be John’s dick?**

_No, because you cannot make John do anything._

**Oh, fuck off. You know full well that we experience what he experiences.**

_But you, as you so helpfully mentioned earlier, are powerless without John’s say-so_. Vince’s triumphant, dry voice ends the argument. John wishes he could make them all shut up.

…

Sherlock crouches over the body, staring at the decaying skin, mentally working out how much time it was in the water. Alongside that, he thinks about John. He’s almost a hundred percent certain that, despite all evidence to the contrary, John has at least two other personalities in his head with him.

He’ll have to look over the evidence he’s already gathered and try to suss out how many personalities that John’s had downloaded into him. He wonders if there’s a formula for which personalities survived and which ones bit the dust in the limbo of deletion.

Speaking of, is the limbo a mental place? Every mind, tampered with or not, has an astral plane, or a mental landscape. Sherlock’s has a great palace on it where he keeps all his memories (where he keeps Victor). But astral planes are limitless in are and mass so what if, when John is wiped, the deleted things are literally moved to a piece of the astral plane designed like an abyss?

It would explain why he could have these personalities. It would also mean that Sherlock is incapable of having an abyss large enough to have anything thrown into it, since he has a range of 1.

Speaking of his range, if he’s right- and he usually is- then someone was, and probably still is, running an experiment on him. They probably picked him because of his range. Which brings him to the question: how did they test him? How did they find out that his range was 1? There had to be people- living, breathing people- somewhere. They had to administer this test, he thinks.

He stands, alive with a new purpose. He needs to go back to the beginning- long before   
Victor. He needs to talk to his old teachers. He needs to know what all went on before and after his disappearance.

He was, after all, caught up in his own world a lot. He wouldn't have known. Wouldn’t have suspected. He didn’t even try to look. There are things he didn’t want to see and he knew it even then, when he should have been gullible on the nature of people.

Since he wasn’t watching, he’ll have to find someone who was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... got grounded again, can't guarantee updates, so bear with me, please.


	22. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there will be regular update tomorrow, but I found the site where I was saving the art I post. So, today, I have art for you, and concrit is welcome. This early version of victor and it's a bit like what Sherlock sees when he dreams him. If the details don't match, remember that I drew this way back when I hadn't posted anything for this work yet.  
> The drawing is mine, so please don't take it anywhere.

 

 

 

 


	23. Barking Up Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns a bit more about his personalities, Sherlock reviews what he's learned and remembers a few things. Sally gets a verdict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late, guys. I finished this two minutes ago. Would have been up Saturday or Sunday, but I was working or sick or asleep.

August sits on the edge of their bed, surrounded by the mess she’d left it in when she packed a bag and spent a few days in an apartment with a woman who introduced herself as Caroline Fletcher. She doesn’t feel heavy anymore. She doesn’t feel hurt or even alive at all. She feels cold because she was a fool.

She relives their first encounter over and over again. In hindsight, she’d been picked too easily; Caroline had zeroed in on her like an eagle. She may not have been watching her specifically, but August was paying attention enough to know; Caroline had gone straight for Beck.

Then, to find that her temporary distraction is, in fact, a gentle handed woman, was too much, and she didn’t want to remember who she is and what has happened, anyways. So she ignored the conveniences and the just-so-happens and took what she could get. Foolishly.

It’s clear now. It’s so clear it hurts.

…

Her eyes opened hazily, mind still too far into the realm of sleep to properly understand that Caroline had taken a phone with her to the bathroom. She was too blissful (for the first time in an age, she doesn’t feel so weighted) to notice that the phone did not belong to Caroline, that it belonged to August, and Caroline shouldn’t have it.

She closed them again, chasing sleep and catching it after a few moments.

…

Maybe she was just nosy, but August doubts it; it was too good to be true, after all. No, someone sent Caroline to her to get information. Briefly, she wonders if his paranoia had rubbed off on her, after all, but doubts it; no one is that sweet at the moment when she most needs it just be-fucking-cause.

She looks at all the things strewn across the floor. She can’t do this anymore; rent’s due in ten days, she’s been investigated, he’s been murdered. No, she can’t do this anymore, because now is not the time to be indulgent, as Sherlock had said once, way back when he was testing her tolerance, about the perpetual sadness that had followed her after a particularly bad breakup.

They’d never been friends, but it’s been the single most influential thing someone has ever said to her. She falls back on the cold sincerity and stands. She picks up the clothes off the floor and folds the ones that fold. The rest find a home on the bed for hanging. One by one, things find their places once more. She ignores the fact that a lot of this his.

Slacks that are too loose in the waist for her and shoes that are three sizes too big are put away like anything else. Button downs that would fall off her shoulders re-find their home along with her own, fitted clothing. Everything, once checked over by a critical eye, is moved back to the closet. She picks up a fedora off the floor.

With her room restored, she sits down and calmly drinks the tea she made when she put a load on, hoping that it will fix how cold her hands feel. It’s not going to work, though. All the cleaning in the world won’t fix this hole she’s found herself in.

An hour and a half later, her two best pairs of slacks return from the dryer. She folds and hangs and puts away all their clothing before calmly selecting an outfit and taking herself off to the shower. She scrubs extra hard; she’s not dirty, but to start with the basics and scrub it all away seems to help in a little way.

When she steps out, the paler skin of her thighs, cheeks, and back are all red. She smells sharply of the men’s body wash he used. She pulls on a sports bra and a black, soft, cotton undershirt before pulling on a pair of dark slacks. Roughly, she oils the very small amount of hair that has grown in the time since she’s shaved. She carefully leans over a freshly wiped sink and smoothly applies eyeliner and mascara and lipgloss; the rest, she leaves blank.

Then, she clips her nails and applies a clear lacquer. She buttons herself into her burgundy shirt and regards herself in the mirror as a pair of black balls are pushed through her pierced earlobes. A small, gold, flat link chain and matching bracelet are slipped on. With the metal looping around under her shirt, it’s low key enough to pull off.

Black wholecuts go on after her coat and a near garishly bright striped purple scarf. Her sketchbook and her pencils makes it’s way to a shoulder bag along with her keys, wallet, and phone. Her naturally good eyebrows look at her, providing a sense of strength that’s enhanced by her square jaw. Donovan sent Caroline; she’s sure of it. No one else would need to. If Donovan’s the cause, then she’s probably still trying to find something on Sherlock. As much as Beck would prefer to avoid Sherlock, she cannot stand by and let the officer run fucking nuts over this shit.

So she steps outside, looking more battle-ready than she has in a long time, hails a cab, and pays the driver. During the ride, she pulls out a pencil and the pad and begins to do a rough sketch of Caroline’s face. Her phone dings.

As she draws, she gradually loses herself in texting her boss (very sympathetic, at the moment. Besides, their in between projects anyways, so it’s a good time to take off from work) and adding more detail. When the cabbie tells her she’s there, she pays and takes herself to a little bakery, gets her second cup of tea, and pulls out her big eraser, her rubber eraser, and a dark pencil for shading.

A little under an hour later, she has a complete drawing. When she’s done, she stows the stuff, tips her waiter, and steps out and to the building Sherlock lives in. She takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. She can do this. She has to, for both his and her sake. She has had her indulgence and she needs to be strong, now.

…

John stares out the window, lost in thought.

 **I’m just saying that he’s close as he is; he’ll figure it out** , Cyrus argues. They’ve returned to the subject of Sherlock.

_You always just say and then when you just get your ass handed to you, you just come up with some other excuse. This is a bad idea._

**He hasn’t made mention of it. He barely keeps his mouth shut on what he figures out. We’d know.**

**Yeah, because everyone’s just so predictable.**

He is not to be trusted.

**He brought us back. He’ll understand that we’re here, eventually. He will have to be trusted.**

_We are accidents. We should have been gone a long time ago. Fuck trust. He will betray it_ , Vince rallies against Cyrus’ reasons. John lays back on his bed and stares at the ceiling. It’s hard to think around their arguing.

 **I'M NOT AN ACCIDENT** , Cyrus nearly roars. John closes his eyes against the phantom pain in his ears.

 _You are_. Vince answers coldly.

_I- we- are more intentional than John is. I will not consider myself an accident when I was made with intention from the ground up. You may think what you will, but their desire to be rid of us does not make us accidents._

Rid? John thinks. As far as Vince explained it, each one of them are Imprints, or the parts of a DataPack left over after a wipe, which is what happens when John had completed his objectives. He’s been under the impression they’ve moved or stored, but he didn’t know someone got rid of them.

**Yeah, John. We were terminated. Deemed unfit. Overloaded and ruined and tossed out. You’re the last mind any of us ever inhabited.**

_You weren’t supposed to say that._

**I’ll say what I like, Vince. Just because you think he’s not strong enough to cope with our reality doesn’t make it so.**

Overloaded?

 _When the situation is beyond the capacity of the DataPack, the connection between the DataPack, the Datacon, and the organic base- you, in this case- becomes faulty, rendering the DataPack unfit for further use. What follows then is utter termination for the DataPack, a deep wipe for the organic base- the Blank- and the equivalent of a burning of the bridge to the Datacon,_  Vince supplies, despite his admonishment _._

What’s the Datacon?

 _Where all information is processed._ John nods against the bedspread. He wonders how many Personalities (he refuses to see them as machinery, as false) were terminated. He rolls onto his side and watches the doorway, wondering what Sherlock would say.

 **A great deal, I imagine** , Cyrus says. John laughs quietly, the dry tone squeezing a bit off lightness into his morose mood. Just now, Sherlock appears in the doorway, face intent.

“John! The game is on,” a grin spreads over his face. A game is always a lot of excitement and it makes him feel on fire and alive.

…

Sherlock stares out the cab window as the vehicle maneuvers the heavy traffic of London. They could have taken the subway, but he needs time to think. Next to him, John is trying very hard to pretend that it’s just the two of them and the cabbie, but Sherlock knows there’s someone in there with him, and it’s got him rather intrigued.

He thinks he’s figured it out; thinks he’s got a location and a great big, solid clue. Sherlock bites his cheek; a habit that had once left huge white sores on the insides of his mouth. In the end, he went and talked to a teacher from primary school.

Her name had been Marian Webb then, now it’s Lawson, and she has a rather lazy kid about to graduate high school, judging by the amount of laundry she does. She’s too indulgent and he’d said as much in order to get her to open up, in order to convince her that the intelligence she couldn’t draw out back then had manifested into a kind of sight not many could lay claim to.

She had, as predicted, spilled all she knew about the men who had once been accepted to the school’s fold for a meager three weeks. She told him about how they had visited every classroom and pulled records because they were “testing the reliability of the school's inner workings to ensure that every student has the maximum capability upon graduation”.

How they’d never talked to the teachers any more than they had to.

Sherlock, upon recall, remembers that one time a rather tall man had sat in the back of his class- ever one of them over the course of those weeks. It was something he’d forgotten; he’d deleted or not paid attention to a great deal of his time in primary.

As the cab stops at a light, Sherlock remembers something else. There had been another body in the crash. Three months prior, something had happened to another branch of the Holmes family. Something dire, if Sherlock recalls correctly. He’d had a bodyguard that had barely made it out alive, someone had told him.

The man had been kept in the Holmes’ employ. He’d been the only person Sherlock trusted enough to do anything with him in public, after they’d come to his first agreed upon diagnosis. He wonders if he couldn’t track the man down. Sherlock had, after all, chosen to forgo the use of a bodyguard at the beginning of highschool.

He’d been seven when the first crash happened, had been missing a total of one month, with four more months’ worth of reprieve with tutors and such in the country house. Then they’d moved back to the city. He started high school two years younger than everyone else- age nine, to be exact- and with a whole lot of baggage he’d become a master at repressing.

College had been finished at age fourteen. Uni was begun at eighteen. the two year gap is an important one, Sherlock knows. He’d spent it experimenting- on chemistry on people, etc. He’d lost his virginity then, in that bright and hazy time of refinement and arguments with his family.

He’d really become Sherlock Holmes then. He’d texted a total of three hundred and thirty one anonymous tips to police; deductions, mostly. Never actual answers. That would have been hazardous, should they have found the boy with the answers. The man however, now that’s a different story.

The cab pulls up outside Scotland Yard. First John, then Sherlock, gets out, and the two stroll inside. As they had to Lestrade’s office, Sherlock gives himself a moment to wonder if he should really be trying to find the experimenters. Then he tosses the thought out of the window. If they hadn’t wanted to be sought, they wouldn’t have been fucking with a genius.

Careless, really. Just like everyone else.

…

Donovan pulled out her phone.

**Wrong tree, love. Better luck next time ;)**

So August didn’t know anything, after all. She looks up as Sherlock strides past her desk. He’s as purposeful as ever. This time, she doesn’t bother to stop him. He’s probably just come to shove sticks up Lestrade’s ass, after all. She gets back to work.

She’ll get to the end of this paperwork if it’s the last thing she does. Today, anyways.


	24. Interlude the 2nd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drawing Sherlock did of the cat girl back in chapter eighteen.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't take this or move it anywhere. It is my original. Concrit is welcome.  
> P.S. I want to do an AO3 feed on tumblr. any suggestions?  
> P.P.S. I have enough time in a week to write a fourth work. Any ideas?


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock must people. John tags along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, guys.  
> Couple questions for you:  
> 1) If I wrote a crossover/multiverse thing, would anyone read it?  
> 2) What do you do with a Tumblr blog that's your AO3 feed?  
> Enjoy!

**That can’t be good** , Cyrus observes from the confines of John’s mind.

Why?

**Sherlock knew her when they were in college, remember? Ten to one says she’s got bad news.**

Didn’t know you were so pessimistic, Cyrus. John jokes.

**I’m not, but look at her face. She looks ready for war.**

_You two_ , Vince snaps, eyes riveted.

**Hehe. Looks like we know Vince’s type, John.**

How do you know?

**He wants to watch that ass, that’s how I know. Likes ‘em tall and fine, apparently.**

_I will rip your throat out._

**If I had one, that is** , Cyrus’s sugary sweet retort makes John laugh.

_Don’t pick sides, John. That’s not at all fair._

**We’re stuck without bodies advising and taking up the headspace of a man who would do better without us, and you talk about fair** , Cyrus says, abruptly serious.

Why would I do better without you all?

_Cyrus has a theory. It’s utterly worthless._

**I want to hear it.**

_You really don’t._ John can hear the eyeroll.

I didn’t ask what I wanted. John says pointedly.

**The theory, John, since my friend here’s an idiot, is that, given the amount of conflict constantly created by four different personalities stuck inside the same head, will, over time, wear you down.**

_Cyrus, of course, is forgetting the fact that you don’t know how to people very well, for lack of a better word._

**Of course, neither do toddlers, but they all grew up to be perfectly functioning people.**

_Functioning being a relative term, of course._

I can’t just get rid of you.

_No one’s asking you, though your alarm is certainly touching. In-_

**Heh. Get it? Touching?**

_Yes, we get it. In any case, don’t worry about it. Cyrus’ theory won’t be in effect until well after you don’t need our input for most things._

Oh.

**In any case, what do you Lestrade’s got on now?**

Sherlock lets the two of them out of the cab. John is left outside Lestrade’s office while Sherlock goes in.

Why doesn’t he trust you anymore? Cyrus asks in a curious sort of way. John gets the feeling he already knows.

Inside the office, Sherlock is pacing and antsy. He has an idea. He has a lot of ideas. They never shut the hell up.

“Sherlock, I cannot just let you run off on a theory.”

“Theories are all I ever have until they are proven fact.”

“Sherlock…” He’s bending. Sherlock can tell.

“Don’t you get it!? They’re here somewhere. They watch me and they wait to see what I do. They have since the beginning. I want to catch someone.”

“What about John?”

“He's not one of them; he’s been wiped so many times he couldn’t possibly be one of them. Besides, I need more than faulty, destroyed wiring to find a real connection.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“It’s always the bad ones that get the best results,” Sherlock’s all but begging now. He wants to set up a trap; he wants to find someone who’s been contributing to the test. Who’s been working against him by working with him. To do that, he’ll need the Yard’s help, since he tends to do highly illegal things that he cannot sit in jail for of this stage of the game.

To do this, though, he has to revert back to his old habits and watch them scuttle to understand the reversal. It’s in the scramble for understanding that they’ll expose something- anything- that Sherlock will be able to use.

“And you’re sure this will work?”

“I am ninety one percent sure.”

“Fine. Fuck around and screw something up, Sherlock, and I will raise hell.”

“Thank you,” he says with a near audible sigh.

“Holmes? Someone here for you,” the secretary who doesn’t like Sherlock says. He turns and sees her striding down the way towards him like a warlord. Well, that can’t be good. He steps outside the office and greets Beck August with a nod.

“Some privacy?” She says with her own nod. He leads her through the rest of the yard and steps out of its back door. It’s cold out here, and it turns his ears a bit red as he draws the coat tighter around himself.

“Listen…” he deduces the news the moment before she says it.

“Miles is dead,” she says quietly. She pulls a cigarette out of her own coat and opens her box to him. He takes one and they both light up.

“How?” he has a feeling that there's more and she’s testing the waters now. He needs to take his time.

“Murder. Bullet…” she reaches back and taps the dip at the top of her neck, “came out through the nose. I didn’t get home for hours after the fact.” she pulls on her cigarette. Sherlock deduces that she’s actually more of a cigar smoker, that she only falls back on cigarettes because a whole lot of her family does, and she picked up the habit from them before quitting after a few months and switching to the cigars right before college.

“They got him in the livingroom. I…” she takes another pull. “Made a mess of the bedroom over it and took off for a few days. Met someone. She abruptly pulls the sketchbook and flips to a freshly marked page. She shows him the drawing.

“She said her name was Caroline. Fletcher,” she says as though she forgot to include a full name. Sherlock nods.

“I know her.”

“She lifted my phone. Went through my shit. I think she was trying to see if there was any connection between the two of us.”

“So Donovan’s still at it.”

“Yep.” They stand in silence and finish their cigarettes. They drop the cherries and grind them out.

“You would do well to keep drawing.” He deduced that it was a good way to deal with grief a while back, but he’s never been good with telling people to take care of themselves, so this will have to do. He thinks August understands, but she shakes her head.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Act like you care.” Sherlock remembers, suddenly, exactly how that feels.

 

…

 

_“Do you understand this?” Thomas Paige, Sherlock mentally reminded himself as he looked up. The other boy loomed over him- though that’s merely because Sherlock is sitting down and hunched over his desk, drawing, and Paige is standing._

_“Yes.” He refrains from saying “obviously”. The completed set of complicated algebraic problems- all thirty three of them- sits neatly on the edge of his desk, forgotten and ignored on completion._

_“Can you explain it to me?” He looks up, checking to make sure the kid’s actually in need of his help. Then he motions for him to set his paper down._

_“Okay… the goal is to use the system of equations to cancel out two variables, leaving the third open to solving…” they go on like that, Sherlock explaining in short, concise sentences the ins and outs of Gaussian Elimination._

_“You’re good at this,” the other boy said as he successfully did the next problem with only a single correction. The third went flawlessly._

_It was the birth of a friendship. They had a lot of classes together, and Sherlock was ahead in nearly every subject (except art, and that doesn’t really count, because there is no “ahead” in art. Not really, anyways.), so he did most of Thomas’ tutoring. His grades rose. The time they spent together rose too._

_It seemed they’d be friends forever, in Sherlock’s mind; his personality was at least tolerable in Thomas’ eye, and the other boy was relatively smart and didn’t mind Sherlock popping off with all kinds of trivia when he deigned to talk._

_Mostly, though, they just sat together quietly while they worked or played. It had been good. Then Sherlock had heard him running his mouth._

_The next time Thomas came over and found him in the backyard, Sherlock refused to curb his tongue, choosing instead to deduce everything he didn’t want to see about Thomas in the month their friend had lasted._

_“What is your goddamn problem, prick?!” he’d shouted and pushed him. Sherlock pushed back. He was thinner and taller and knew how to use his height (a bit)._

_“Well… I’d tell you, but it appears I’m just too awkward to share.” Understanding dawned in Thomas’ eyes as his words from two days ago came flooding back to him._

_“Sherlock-”_

_“Sherlock nothing. If I’m such an “awkward, boring, little fuck”, then you can find someone else to tutor you, because I’m going to charge you more than your puny little pockets can hold.” Sherlock said with a smirk on his face. He can tell that Thomas thought they’d be able to work through the issue and go on being “friends”, but he would not just turn his back and let the bastard talk about him._

_It hurts, too, to see that look on his face, the “he’s no more use look”, but Sherlock needs it to be there._

_It was the first time he’d learned not to go in if they’ve no intention to keep you. A while later, he sat watching the boys who make fun of the other kid who has Asperger’s and considered the implications of being such an awkward person and what he might do to fix it…_

 

…

 

“I’m merely deducing,” Sherlock says evenly as he pulls open the door and sees August through the station and into a cab. Then he strides back inside. He should watch his back more, he thinks as he deduces everything about where Donovan’s been in the past few days.

He squashes the urge to confront her. He can bother her later. For now, August is on her way home and not unstable enough to warrant extra care. He’ll deal with her little games when he is done with the interesting parts. For now, though, he has a dealer to find.


	26. Chase the Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives August an option. John has trouble.

She’s beautifully, if somberly, turned out in a cut and fitted black suit with peaked lapels under an unbuttoned top coat. Between the wool and the back of her neck, a soft, warm scarf the same muted, burgundy red as her lipstick hangs from either side, doing nothing to hide the expanse of cervix above the high collar of her clothing. 

Her eyes, already on the large side, seem to be endless pools of dark and secrets among the brown and darker brown eyeshadow and black liquid liner and mascara. The entirety of her face is smooth panes of pale brown skin. 

At nearly four weeks since she cut her hair, a dark, half-inch collection of tiny corkscrew curls covers her skull. Her hands are covered by white kid gloves, feet by plain toe balmorals that gleam dully as she supervises the setting up of her friend’s funeral. 

It’d been hard to get here. The Lancasters, though not overly formidable, are not a group to trifle with. The day after the investigation was closed (it took five days, since August had insisted that it wasn’t a suicide and had refused to believe otherwise), the paperwork was delivered to Miles’ executor, who had called a meeting to read said document.

Gathered around a rather nice table, August had seen the remnants of those important to Miles for the first time. She had nodded, introduced herself, and learned that she was speaking to Viola and two Lionel Lancasters. The tense silence between the four of them- the long time knowers of Miles’ problems and the woman he would have married- had not bothered August. 

The only thing she feared was chit chat.

The damn fit Lionel Lancaster, Sr. had thrown when the will was read and they had learned that, among other things, Miles had insisted that his arrangements be taken care of by a one Beck August does not compare to the pain of small talk between the already tense and divided group.

What had followed was three weeks of hellish negotiations as the coffin was picked, outfit decided, flowers selected, headstone (a heavy, gothic number similar to one August had once seen Miles take a picture of) chosen and engraved with a phrase that Miles himself had dictated. 

August had the inscription done in latin at the insistence of Viola.

Now, she watches as the hands she hired through the funeral director set up chairs and flowers and what not for a ceremony to be taking place in two hours. It’s cold out here, she thinks. She can’t bring herself to pull the top coat closed or fix the voluminous near-silk scarf. She glances behind her, towards the gates of the cemetery as a long, black car pulls up. Two men and a shorter woman all climb out. 

As they draw nearer, August can make out the stony expressions on their faces. She glances at the set up. Good. The last flower pot has been set in place. It’s too late to raise hell over decorations, but they’ve still arrived early enough to bother her.

Somberly, she raises a hand. It doesn’t wave or even remain visible for long. Her arm falls as she watches from her vantage point; a silent, cold apparition. 

“One would think that the setup had just begun, the way you were speaking,” Viola said, voice heavy with grief and cold with disapproval. August turns to the men, who’ve finished and have dispatched one of their own to let her know.

“One would.” is her only response. 

They stand in cold silence. August reminds herself that, had this been her son, she would have been right pissed as well; August seems to have taken the place of honor in Miles’ will, just as she had everywhere else. It’s a painful thing, when she was not even brought to Viola for inspection.

She doesn’t think she’d have done any better. 

Right on time, the man arrives, clipboard in hand.

“Miss August?” She nods and signs the clipboard handed to her. 

“Thank you.” With a last nod, the men pack up their things and get in a van resting discreetly out of sight. They’ll be back when the mourners have left to bury Miles.

Never one to talk in the first place, the grief of Miles’ passing has rendered her the way she always is when she totally loses control of her own emotions: voiceless. She is the only one close to Miles that will not be speaking. 

More guests start arriving. Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax are Miles’ closest aunt and uncle, and they’re accompanied by Roger, Billy, and Richard Fairfax, his cousins. They take seats in the second row, directly behind the Lancasters, who take up the front row along with Julius Lancaster, Miles’ only remaining grandparent and a childhood hero (according to Lionel Lancaster Jr.) and, of course, August herself. 

Across the aisle formed by a break in the chairs, a family of three (also Lancasters) and two significant others (who apparently passed their parents’ inspection and will soon be Lancasters) take a seat. They are joined by a cousin once removed, and another Lancaster who apparently took his own car.

Behind them are the Vicars and their three daughters. Across from them, is the sixth Vicar, her husband, and their three children. The cars keep coming. The rows fill up. August greets in a detached way. Not many actually come to say hi (she’d only known one Vicar, and it’s the married one) but she seems to greet them anyways, appearing cold and wraithlike from where she watches. 

At the last moment, a few moments before the service begins, she strides down the gentle knoll and takes her seat in the isle, on the other side of Lionel Lancaster II. She reminds herself that she needs to hold it together as she dares to look at Miles for the first time. 

They’ve patched the hole in his head. He looks as though he died in his sleep. A little smile tugs the edge of one corner of her mouth. She remembers how, after work, she’d once come home to see him sprawled on the floor, back down, sleeping. He looks like that now.

August tunes in as Viola takes the microphone and talks about how she’d had such high hopes, how he’d achieved everything she’d ever dreamed for him, helped him with, worked with him to get to and so much more, with and without her help. She says, as she addresses the amassed family and one interloper.

“I… he got so far. It’s such a shame to see my son so squandered.” In death. Squandered in death, August mentally corrects as, for the first time since they greeted each other, their eyes meet. The meaning is clear. August is the squanderer. Not death, but a woman who took him away.

Grimly, she laughs in her head. Maybe she’s right.

The rest of the ceremony is a blur, including the rest of the speeches. Finally, as the guests rise, and some of the less jaded of Miles’ family give her flowers and tell her how much they’re sorry for her loss, she spots a tall, dark form slide out of the chair at the very back and travel up and over the knoll.

She gets into her car to head for the wake, having no doubt in her mind that she has not seen the last of Sherlock Holmes.

 

…

 

“What do you want?” One does not grow up in a house with five boys and four girls and not have an intuition for when one is being watched. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock begins. He could manipulate her, he knows. All he has to do is make her think she’s in control. He won’t, though. He needs loyalty, now, not illusion. He draws abreast of her as she stares out the window at the gathering clouds. The day had begun in the bright blue cold, but it will rain before the afternoon’s out. 

As well dressed as she is, he could almost believe that she is over outer displays of grief; that she’s on the way to a recovery. She’s not, though. She hasn’t eaten in too long and seems to be living off of a steady and heavy diet of tea and coffee. 

She’s lost weight- five pounds, thirteen ounces. Her fingers, never having possessed a lot of fat in the first place, are just this side of spindly, and what meat is there will not last her. The slightly rounded edge of a healthy face has become a bit more angular. 

One might not notice, but Miles’ death is not yet done with her.

Quiet sits between them, August too caught up in her thoughts to pay attention. When it appears that he has a shot, Sherlock goes on.

“You don’t think it was suicide.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Why?”

“He wasn’t in a low.” Sherlock had long deduced Miles’ bipolar disorder, which, as he recalls, is characterized by highs (manic, irresponsible, impulsive behavior and high self esteem) and lows (depression, low self esteem, high anxiety and, most importantly, suicidal thoughts/attempts). According to Miles, he was diagnosed at fourteen, and the two years following were both dark and bright in equal measure. Sherlock considers August’s validity.

She was his near fiance, if that necklace she’s feeling through her clothes means what he thinks it means, and she knew him the best. If she says it wasn’t the right time for a suicide, then she’s right. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time that someone with a mental illness had the worst parts of it pasted across their life as though the state is perpetual instead coming in episodes.

“Fair enough,” he concedes, as though he doesn’t defer to her judgement as much as he just did. 

“What do you think of it?

It was amusing. 

“I thought it interesting that his ‘suicide’ coincided with Donovan’s somewhat illegal investigation of me.” August nods.

That doesn’t explain why you’re here?” Now Sherlock turns to her fully, facing her in the wake full of people beginning to itch for escape.

“Because I’m onto something, and I’ve found the amount of people I can trust too few.”

“So you want my help.”

“Yes.”

“What would I be doing and why me?”

“Because you have an adaptability that isn’t present in most people, you have personal stake in this due to Miles’ death, you don’t run your mouth, and you’ll be inclined to mistrust all comers,” Sherlock rattles off succinctly. The meaning is clear: August is useful, and Sherlock needs a second ally not tied to anyone but him.

August glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He’s right. She wants to see the fucker who killed Miles and make them pay for it. She’ll put up with a lot of shit. It’s just the way she is, but she’s not about to just sit there while someone murders her lover.

“You’ll find his murderer?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m in.” She holds out a hand, and Sherlock clasps it for a moment. Through two sets of gloves, he can feel the raw strength of her hands.

“Good. Come to my flat tomorrow. Eight o’clock.”

“Why?”

“You need to know how to shoot a gun, of course.”

 

…

 

At eight in the evening, Sherlock calmly exhales before pushing himself off the ground, legs crossed, and the only thing supporting him are his two hands. He extends his legs out at a forty-eight degree angle and, in a feat he should not be able to do, slowly hauls his torso out and up. He straightens his legs and, in careful position, holds the handstand.

His eyes are closed as he ticks through facts.

In the UK, 23 men per 100,000 take their own lives.

Most people with bipolar disorder will wait an average of 13.2 years before being diagnosed.

Those treated for other conditions like depression are more likely to take their own lives.

Miles was diagnosed at fourteen.

August, though sane, had a string of counselors growing up due to both a divorce, a second near-divorce, and a host of other problems.

More than one of her siblings and at least one parent takes medicine for a mental disorder(s).

This is a touchy subject.

August will internalize problems.

Miles will too.

They made a good pair, according to what Sherlock has come to believe makes a lasting, substantial relationship.

Did she ever break the rules?

Did she ever forget herself?

Did she ever lose the empathy she’s tried so hard to maintain?

Her father has no such empathy (August is inclined to think him a narcissist).

August is afraid of having children.

She thinks she’d make a bad parent.

According to the facts Sherlock’s gathered about parenting, she would.

Depression and grief makes August prone to lethargy, anger, and irritability.

She smokes weed every now and then; has done so at least five times during the last three weeks. She has a hyperrealistic koi fish on her left shoulder.

She doesn’t like taking care of her hair.

She-

His arms are shaking. He didn’t realize that. Carefully, he lowers his body, legs back in their angle. For a moment, he sits on the floor.

She’ll stick with him. Even if it kills her, she won’t leave or be swayed. According to morality, he should have sent her to a therapist. He doesn’t do morals. (Morals are mental restrictions applied and upheld by those who consider themselves “good” or, at least “kind of good”.)

She doesn’t trust regular doctors or businessmen or attorneys, but she trusts therapists.

All in all, she’s the best she has in regards to a second ally. He glances at the little white card from the envelope she sent him; it’s been a funeral invitation. 

 

…

 

John lays on his bed, feet over the one side, head near falling off the other. He closes his eyes, but he knows he can’t sleep. He’s too troubled. All his minds are racing. They don’t remember where he was today. No one knows.

**Maybe you’re head’s physically fucked, too?** Cyrus speculates.

_ No, we would have known _ , Vince cuts in.

_ You would have known, and we all know how you just love to keep your information _ , Cyrus retorts.

_ Shut it. Arguing isn’t going to solve this. _

**Solve? Solve what? We don’t even know what the fucking problem is, and this dumb fuck’s just like: oh, let’s not argue.** Cyrus’s sarcasm is apparently at its finest.

_ It won’t fix the problem _ , Vince says imperially.

**It’s not about fixing the problem, arsehole!**

Maybe we should tell Sherlock? John suggest quietly.

_ He’ll put you back in the Chair _ . Vince cuts in again.

**You don’t know that** .

_ I also don’t know if we’re going to die if we jump off a fucking cliff. That doesn’t mean I’m going to go and fucking find out, _ Vince snarls in pure venom.

I’ll decide if I tell Sherlock, thank you.

_ And here I thought you cared. _

I do, but you don’t run me.

**Right, then. Where were we today? Were we out? In? Working? With Sherlock?**

This is troubling, Magnus weighs in.

Hullo, Magnus.

John. Vince. Cyrus. The group’s quietest member greets them. It’s as though he’s been somewhere else.

The void and the Datacon are a boundless blank canvass. It takes conscious effort to be heard by you. I have, indeed, been elsewhere , Magnus confirms as John pulls himself off the bed.

**We still need to know where we’ve been.**

In time , Magnus says calmly as John goes down the stairs to raid the fridge and the… well, anywhere there’s food, which may not actually be the fridge. When it is clear that even the ingredients to make food are unappetizing, John gets the cellphone Sherlock gave him.

What do you guys want?

**_Chinese_ ** , they say in unison.

 

…

 

Irene looks at the blown up pictures of August. She’s rather interesting, really. In the space of what she’s guessing is a single epiphany, she went from out of control to tightly so and is now apparently part of Sherlock’s inner circle, if there is such a thing in the first place.

She could intervene. She could pick up the phone and answer Donovan, but she decides not to. No, she’d rather see what her three day fling will get up to in the time it takes Irene to decide on the direction in which she wants to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might drag a bit, but I promise it's leading up to lots and lots of fun things.


	27. To Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John forgets to not speak out loud. August takes Sherlock up on his offer. Sherlock does his thing.  
> So I've been looking up everything I have a question about, and I was wondering if it's made my writing any better?

The entirety of the Yard has surprise written all over their faces when Sherlock strolls in an hour after most of them have had their coffee. Second and third cups are in evidence everywhere. As usual, John is with Sherlock, but, next to him, is August. The three of them seem to form the triangle of Death. And Insults. Yeah, that.

The dark circles under August’s eyes are too evident, and it’s clear she’s lost weight the way it wasn’t at the funeral or the wake after. She seems to have developed a permanent wrinkle between her eyebrows.

Sherlock casts his eyes over the assembled officers before moving on beyond them. He can see Sally’s guilt, and Anderson’s curiosity. It seems Donovan’s been acting beyond his scope of knowledge. Not that it’s hard to do, anyways.

As August sees Donovan, she raises her chin that much more, her eyes naturally narrowing at the change in perspective. God, it’s like she was born pissed. Her scarf- a double pattern of three different blues, this time- serves to up the intensity. Donovan meets her eyes. Sherlock can insult her all he likes, but she will not be cowed by this… interloper, no matter how bad a way she’s in.

The three of them walk into Lestrade’s office. It’s only once the door shuts that Sally realizes that John was watching her, too.

The shouting starts exactly two minutes later.

“I CANNOT GET ANYWHERE IF YOU’RE MAIN CONCERN IS A MAN WHO SITS ON HIS ARSE ALL DAY AND COMPLAINS ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE GOING OUT AND DOING THINGS!”

The lower, strained voice of Lestrade answers back, just as pissed. He's too quiet to understand, though.This is so typically Holmesian that, even though this is one of the few times Sherlock bothers to say anything to Lestrade, no one’s really surprised that it has devolved this quickly.

Another voice starts loud and it quickly quiets, seemingly taking the remainder of the conversation with it. Sally bends her head to her task.

“Sally!” Lestrade calls from the open door of his office. She rises. Into the lion’s den she goes, it seems. Inside, Sherlock is glaring daggers at Lestrade, while August has adopted a military esque stance. John, as always, looks unassuming. Still, it’s as though something is churning in him.

“How long will it take you to find a team of people you trust?” She freezes. She hadn’t expected that…

By accident, she catches the rarely friendly gaze of August. A small smirk has lifted one corner of her mouth. Distractedly, Sally wonders what imperfections she’s hiding under the concealer and powder on her face.

“Not long,” she says, already compiling a list of people.

“Good. I’ve got a job for you.”

…

The job Sherlock had all but carried out on his own had netted them this prize had been botched. But, after roughly three weeks, the man’s bruises are nearly gone, and he’s got a ripe and explosive temper. Only now has Lestrade consented to Sherlock’s meddling with him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite addict,” he bites out as he stands and steps forwards. The remains of breakfast had been long cast aside. He’s wearing an oatmeal colored jumpsuit as he’s jockeyed out of the van and into the station.

Sherlock does not so much as blink.

“Tell me, cunt,” he says, swinging his attention to Sally, “what do you think will happen when I get out of here?” his biting tone makes Donovan want to simultaneously run away and beat this fool to a pulp.

The bright fluorescent lights give way to the softer ones of the elevator and finally the long space age kind of the basement. They walk him down to a room and put him inside. Sherlock sits across from him while he’s cuffed to a table. The door closes. The only other two people in the room are August and John. The former stands with a soldier’s indifference. The latter is intently watching.

“Who’s your supplier?”

“Pinocchio,” the man sneers.

“Who’s your supplier?”

“Why? Wanna cut me out of the middle?” Sherlock doesn’t lose his grip on the situation. Instead, he rises from his chair. He’s over the table, hands supporting him. His eyes lock with this man’s- Thomas, Sherlock had once called him.

“I don’t need to cut you out of the middle. In fact, I don’t even need to get an answer. I just have to wait.” The man raises one irritated eyebrow. Sherlock holds his hand out behind him. John puts something in it. The object is set on the table, just beyond Thomas’s hands.

“First, you’ll feel uncomfortable, but that’s all,” he begins, “It will be hard to sit still, but it won’t hurt. It will be like you’re whole world is buzzing in the peripheral of your senses. It will instantly worsen your mood, and it’s already terrible.” He straightens and steps to the right so that he’s now perpendicular to his old dealer.

“Next, you’ll start imagining things. Hallucinating itches, feeling pain that’s not there. You’ll be half mad, all before you start with the visions. They’ll swamp you- bad trip after bad trip, eating at your remaining energy, making you beat your head against any wall that might just bash it in.” He takes a single step forwards, around the table.

“And there will still be that buzzing, making you shiver, keeping you from sleeping even when you’re unconscious.” At this, he moves until he can bend over, breath on the back of Thomas’s neck.

“Then, and only then, will I be there. You will scream anything for even a drop of that little bottle.” He doesn’t give the man time to realize that the soliloquy is over and slam his head back. Instead, he abruptly sweeps by and snags the bottle.

“Think about it,” Sherlock says, not even turning as August and John follow him out. While that was undoubtably one of the creepiest things the woman’s ever seen, it feels good, somehow, to know that they are on the path to retribution to miles.

…

John wakes up the next morning, but he doesn’t remember ever getting there.

Why does this keep happening? There is a peculiar silence in his head. They are listening, but they refuse to speak.

“What do you know?” he says out loud. He still gets no answer.

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW?! he fairly yells.

 _Calm down, calm down,_ Vince finally bursts.

 **I told you that would happen** , Cyrus says.

_I know what you-_

“No more games,” John says, changing his pants and pulling on a pair of trousers and a black tee shirt. He heads to the bathroom. “Why am I losing my memory?” Another bout of silence.

It’s called the Rasa Effect. 

“Magus,” John greets.

It’s the systematic fragmentation of the original personality which includes, but is not limited to, loss of time and memory, odd or unorthodox behavior, a switch in who the lead personality is, etc. It seems you’re in the later stages of it.

“Why am I only learning it now?”

Because I’ve spent most of my time combing through your void and your datacon looking for anything that makes sense. Suddenly, the rareness of Magnus’ input makes sense. If he was always looking for something and, as he said, it takes conscious effort to be heard. But…

“Why would you need to comb through my datacon?” he muses. The question is rhetorical, because he already knows. You only need to search for an answer you already have if the answer’s incomplete.

“So when I forget, you forget too.”

Yes, Magnus says. even as Vince starts to talk over him.

_It’s not that late, John, we just have to figure out why it’s happening. Then we can stop it._

“Bullshit. You’re telling me I’m quite literally disappearing.”

No, You’re relocating. Remember: nothing ever really disappears unless the brain matter itself is lost. Should you actually fall into the void entirely, I have no doubt that you’d claw your way out again. 

“That’s not the point. If I’m not in control, and none of you are in control, who is!?” He asks, his hand on the doorknob. He twists the lock and pulls open the door.

“Just how many of you are not in control?” Sherlock asks. John can do nothing but flinch away and stare at him.

Have no fear. He cannot touch you. Not unless he wants to deal with me. Besides, he did give you a vast and veritably deep well of knowledge on both the art of self defence and disappearing  . John shuts his mouth and refuses to answer.

“If you’re disappearing, John, I can help you.” Don’t do it, Vince says, already sounding a little panicky. He’ll keep you captive. He’ll-

“It’s happened twice,” John says, more at peace with the fact that being quiet now won’t help anything. Besides, as Magnus has said, it’s not as if John is helpless.


	28. Imposter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a nasty little surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha I forgot to update this one. Happy birthday.

“Are you sure about this?” John says. Sherlock glances at him. He’s never seen John doubt before; it’s more proof of life than a pulse, at this point. He’s sitting in the chair, straddling it. The helmet’s in his hand. He gazes down at the silver-and-white rounded object, black face plate shining in the bright and bleaching light. 

“Of course I’m sure,” Sherlock says, fingers rapidly flicking through coding. August leans against wall next to the door, watching. She’s always watching, Sherlock notices. When she isn’t talking.  Right now, she’s looking at the helmet in John’s hand, head cocked just barely to one side. 

The lights have been turned down again, but they’re still bright enough that August’s pupils are tiny, lost as they are in the dark brown of her pupils. Sherlock can see the stiffness in August’s hands, and he knows she’s trying not to twist her fingers.

“I’m ready,” Sherlock says after a few more minutes of silence. John looks at the helmet one more time before sliding it on. Sherlock touches his earpiece.

“We’re synced.” it’s the only word for an hour. Two hours. Two hours and ten minutes. At two hours and fifteen minutes, the time is 11:56, Sherlock’s rapid searching through John’s datacon becomes frantic.

“What’s happening!?” August says, aware that something has either gone very, very wrong or is about to. John laughs from inside the helmet.

“Morning. This is a turn, isn’t it, Sherlock?” John’s field of vision- or rather, whoever the hell it is inside of John’s head, is severely hindered right now. Sherlock quickly opens another screen and types something on it. He flips it around to show August.

 

**Be Ready. He’s about to run.**

 

August has no reaction, only barely glancing at the screen before pinning her gaze onto John’s oddly changed personality.

“Who are you?” Sherlock says, moving aside his Violotech screens with a swipe of his hand. 

“Oh, that’s not the question, Sherlock, love. The question-” here, he fingers the button on the outside of the helmet. The hiss of released air only ramps up the tension. John stands, taking off the helmet. He shakes his head a bit, face twisted into a deeply amused smirk. “Is where have I been?” He stalks around to Sherlock. He gets so close that they look like they’re kissing from August’s view.

“And the answer, love, is everywhere you wish I wasn’t.” Sherlock’s confusion is not something that shows, and it’s there only for a moment before his eyes are narrowing, a deep, rolling rage building up inside and spilling from his pores.

“Vic, by the way, was such a fun person. He so loved the idea of being free… so imagine my delight when he starts to understand he never will be. I could have stopped it there, of course. I could have reorientated him and sent him back,” Sherlock does not dare ask why. There are some answers he doesn’t want. 

“But you were high. And I don’t mean on drugs- no, you burned through the Rhapsody too quickly. No, you were at the top of your game. You were thriving. I wanted to know what sound you’d make when I broke your little heart into shards.” Sherlock’s trying hard not to remember now, but it’s impossible not to recall, for a brief moment, what happened after.

 

…

 

_ London… is a harsh place for those who aren't’ ready. It’s hard to die if you don’t just blow your brains out, too, Sherlock’s noticed. He’s curled against a dirty, dingy wall, staring motionlessly into space, the lower half of a bearded face pressed into muck covered knees. He’s hungry, transport crying out for fuel.  _

_ But he won’t eat, because his mind is crying out for sleep. Real sleep- the kind you don’t wake up from. His hands shake from the cold as, in the background, he listens to the programming, static and bad reception robbing him of every third word.  _

_ He misses Victor. His hands shake. His head hurts. He is still too alive to forget. His crappy phone dings. He fishes the lump of modern invention out of his baggy clothing and looks down at it.  _

 

_ There is dinner at Speedy’s, if you please.  -MH _

 

_ Briefly, he considers Mycroft’s odd lack of… involvement. The last time he was so unable to function, there was no place that Mycroft was not. Maybe he understands. Maybe he just wants Sherlock to function again. Or maybe he thinks his younger brother a burden. _

_ Mechanically, he stands.  He slips the little radio into the front pocket of his hoodie after turning it off. He’s not sure why he’s going, but Victor’s yelling at him, telling him to eat something and to not be such a fucking idiot. So he does. If he can still hear Victor’s voice, then maybe he’s not supposed to die yet. He leaves shelter of an unused apartment and shuffles out onto the fire escape. _

_ Nimbly (not. His hands are too shaky) he climbs down the ladder and begins the walk to Speedy’s. _

 

…

 

“You made such a pretty sound when you fell.” 

Sherlock throws a punch, hitting John square in the jaw before the shorter man runs screaming from the room.

“He’s crazy!” August jumps in the way, but catches one to the stomach. The oomph of air that leaves her even sounds painful as Sherlock tears after this… this imposter who’s screaming like he’s really scared. He hears August’s gait behind him.

Sherlock roars wordlessly. The problem with running after someone Sherlock was thick as thieves with literally five minutes ago is that when said person says you’re crazy, and everyone else already thinks so, too, the tables are inclined to turn against you.

A force bodily hits him, jarring him and knocking his balance askew.

“Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?”

“That’s not John!”

“It is too! And you fucking terrified him,” Lestrade says. 

“It’s a personality,” Sherlock growls, before throwing himself at Lestrade, hitting shoulder to diaphragm and buying him a few precious seconds to catch up with August, who has gotten over the pain in her stomach enough to be hot on John’s trail.

She’s too far away, though, and he has no hope of catching her- not when she’s three inches shorter and a fast sprinter. Moriarty turns down the an alleyway. It feels like he’s moving through honey and shit when August draws the glock 17 Sherlock taught her to use, aims, and fires. 

At the last moment, her aim jerks downward, preventing her from nailing him in the back of the neck with a G22.40 slug. Instead, it cuts through the meat on the outside of his thigh. At this point, he’s so close to the end of the alleyway that the sudden appearance of a car is close enough that whoever is inside can collect the injured man. 

Another open fires on August and Sherlock, who just barely make the cover of debris. Their eyes meet. August is not military. She doesn’t know what to do now. Sherlock silently shakes his head. 

The car peels away with a squeal of tires and the stench of burning rubber is all that’s left. Sherlock huffs out a sigh and closes his eyes briefly. August  edges around the dumpster, gun ready. There’s no point, though. They are gone. 

Their eyes meet across the space. 


	29. Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does a little thinking. John does a little wandering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't get the chance to post for the next few days, so there's this.

John opens his eyes and all he sees is grey. It’s not the grey of mist, though he thinks that’s what he’s looking at. It surrounds him, and, though he breathes it in, there is no wet feeling to the air. Come to think of it, he can’t feel the air at all. 

He deliberately tries not breathing, and immediately feels the pressure in his chest. He keeps it there as long as possible before gulping in air but he still can’t tell that it’s there. He shakes his head, but he can’t feel it. So how is he breathing if there is not air?

He sits up and notices he’s laying on wet sand. It’s stuck to his jumper. He pushes himself to his feet and reflexively runs his hands down the front of his pants, though there is no sand there. He turns around once, twice, thrice, but can’t figure out where he is, or where the body of water that’s making this sand wet’s at, or even any markers to allow him to figure his direction. 

He kneels and picks at the sand until he can taste it. Salt. So what he knows amounts to the fact that he’s probably next to the ocean somewhere at low tide and there’s a cold front coming in (or at least there would be, if he could find the damn wind). That’s strikingly little, considering the fact that he doesn’t know where he was or what he was doing before he… he’ll go with fell asleep.

He takes a few steps and stops. If he leaves, he won’t be able to get back. He won’t be able to see where he’s going and he probably won’t be able to walk in a straight line either and he won’t be able to get back. He could sit and wait for the tide- he was lying on damp sand when he woke up. That water didn’t just take a drive across the english countryside (if he is indeed in England still). But that could take hours, and he doesn’t know when he will need food, but if it’s not early morning, it will get dark soon, and if it’s already this cold, he’ll probably freeze. 

He chooses a direction at random and begins to walk. It doesn’t take long before his muscles are warm enough that when something tells him to run, he does, picking up a fast trot. He watches the ground, but the fog is so thick that he barely keeps his balance when he trips over a long row of jagged, uneven rocks. 

They extend so so long to either side of John that they disappears into the mist to either side of him. Speaking of which, it seems to have grown thinner, since he couldn’t see that far an hour ago. If this is fog on the ocean, then he’s going in the right direction. The line of rocks his waist high, so John backs up a few yards and takes a running jump. 

He almost misjudges to much and hits a shin on the ledge. Breath puffs out of him, though he can’t feel it against his mouth. He pulls himself the rest of the way up and and stands for a moment, catching his breath. He starts to walk again before he’s interrupted.

“I wouldn’t go that way, if I were you,” he turns around and sees a redhead that hadn’t been there before. His hair is cut into layers and spiked. In his one visible ear, John can see a small black gauge roughly a centimeter in diameter in his ear. There’s a cigarette in his mouth. John’s never seen him before, but he gets the feeling that it’s very, very important. 

 

...

 

She puts the plate on the tea. It’s stupid when she sets it down and the cup is sitting carefully balanced on the top of the cup instead of on the bottom. It’s in a mug, too. Irritating. What does she think it does? Make pixie dust?

August sits with her own tea, absorbed in her own thoughts for the moment. He considers telling her not to think and to put the plate on the bottom, but she’s not John and he would do well to not try and change her or her style. She probably thinks he’s irritating her too.

John is gone. That’s the symptom. He tells himself to move on from that, because he needs to address the problem. The problem is that John had another personality that he has a ninety percent chance of not knowing he was there. This personality is now running around in John’s body. Therein lies the minor problem. John is still there, but someone else rules him, now. 

The major problem, of course, is that this personality is most likely connected with his theory that this whole thing has been one big experiment. A case study, specifically. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. August, who thinks Sherlock is too deep in his mind palace to notice, studies his face as he takes a long drag and exhales through his nose. 

Theoretically, it’s possible to achieve immortality by downloading a mind into a Datapack, and then syncing that into the mind of a Blank. The younger the Blank at the time, the better. It’s possible that this invading personality has been there for a long time; a dormant and frequently updated backup in case something happened to the original body. 

Speaking of young. John was kidnapped when he was seven, and Sherlock the same. This, he supposes, means that John was thirteen when Sherlock was seven. He wonders if the boy he saw when he was there is indeed the same man who’s been living with him for all this time. 

He’d say it doesn’t matter, but it just might. After all, who goes through the highly meticulous and painstakingly long process of crossing the Holmes family, but can’t keep one child from seeing the other in a massive underground facility? No one. That’s the dumbest mistake Sherlock’s seen in a long time, with respect to the intellect behind the whole thing. 

Or it’s bait. After all, the invader knew just how to piss him off. By Sherlock’s estimation, he’s at least as smart as the detective himself, if not more than, as he’s had the reigns in this damn race for a long time. 

So what’s he supposed to do about it?

Wait for him to show his face, of course, but if he does that, he’s just following the same path he’s been following since he was seven years old. No, he needs a better plan than that. He considers ignoring the presence of the imposter- stay focused on the objective (breaking down the organization that kidnaps children and turns them into programmable machines) and betting that recovering John will come later. 

Of course, there’s a high chance that that won’t happen.

He doesn’t think he has a better option, though, because to go for John is to play right into the imposter’s hands. Maybe… well, he could always force a confrontation, then choose to either (a) try and capture John then or (b) fulfill some other part of the plan that he doesn’t quite have yet.

The trick, he thinks, is not tipping his hand until it’s too late, no matter which way he goes. But how would he draw the imposter out? What could he possibly have? Nothing. But he could get something. All he’d have to do is make sure it’s valuable. 

Immortality the way it’s been done only works if there’s a single copy of that personality walking around. So if he wanted to draw the imposter out, he could find the fragmented code that was originally hiding inside John’s mind, and put it in his. After all, you can’t wipe Sherlock, but you can put things in on top. It usually doesn’t work because a fully functional mind has a kind of mental immune system that battles it out with any new programming until only one survives.

If he were able to, say, convince his subconscious mind of a new code’s safeness, it would pass right over, like the bacteria a body neither needs nor is hurt by. But then, if he did that, he’d need a really good reason not to be killed, since just downloading the personality itself is like taking a gun to his temple. 

So what does this imposter want?

What makes him tick?

What makes him vulnerable?

A riddle?

A game?

A murder? 

A phenomenon?

Sherlock picks up his tea. 

Therein lies the question.

 


	30. Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes his move

“Hurry up,” Sherlock snaps.

“Sit and spin,” August mutters as she examines the hunk of tech in her hand. She’s looking back and forth between the dark jack in Sherlock’s back and the plug in her hand.

“Believe it or not, this does need to be done today,” Sherlock says after a few more moments. 

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” she says as she cautiously sets a hand on Sherlock’s tattooed trapezius and carefully eases the tech inside.

“Finally,” Sherlock says as a zing passes through him. It’s been a long time since the jack’s been used. So long, in fact, that a bit of skin had grown over the top, and had to be cut away (carefully. August was pissed being pressed into doing the honors). Sherlock rolls his head as he gets used to the faster pace of his heart.

It’s weird being fully awake for this. He opens the black case he’s holding. He figured it out, of course. Rhapsody- yes, the same one that Sherlock’s been taking for years- relaxes the mental defenses and allows for programmers to physically alter parts of the mind, which Sherlock found out while listening to his dealer’s crazed rantings about the beauty of it. It only took three days for the man to crack, and the rest is history.

It is, of course, beautiful. A drug that, as long as you give in, makes you feel loose and happy, but fully functioning thought while high can send you on nightmare trips so bad you don’t know what happened the next day? A drug that has the dual purpose of exposing those who are Blanks or at least in the 90s and those like Sherlock, who are below 10? 

It’s the brainchild of a genius. 

He fills the syringe. By his calculations, if he’s 8% healthier than his average level and takes 1/4th the normal dosage, he’ll send himself on a trip low enough that he’ll still be able to work- maybe even be able to work faster than normal. 

He hears Miss Hudson’s high and worried voice telling someone that Sherlock’s busy and she really doesn’t think-

The door opens, and Lestrade and Sally and Anderson and a few others Sherlock detests flood the room. 

“Sherlock, put that down.”

“I’m busy,” Sherlock says, eyes on Lestrade, focus everywhere, specifically on an officer ready to pounce on him.

“Yeah. Checking into rehab,” Sally says. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Watch and learn.” At the same time the officer jumps at him in an attempt to stop Sherlock from sticking himself, August intercepts the f, throwing her long body in the way and forcibly giving Sherlock just enough time to inject Rhapsody. 

“Hello,” Sherlock murmurs as he can feel… not an awareness, necessarily; like everyone, he’s always aware of his earpiece, but more like a greater amount of control. In fact… at his mental bidding, his tablet and his equipment, already pre synched, come online. 

“Sherlock?” August says from her place on the floor.

“Aware and active. Opening datacon now.” The genius answers after a moment of slack-faced silence.

“Care to explain, Sherlock?” the DI says. His voice drips irritation and homicidal thoughts.

“In addition to being my drug of choice, Rhapsody is the fluid injected into Blanks when they’re being programmed. It’s the safest way to open up the mind. It is, of course, given to them at a much higher dose.” Sally gets this look on her face like a frog just spoke.

“So you aren’t high?” she says.

“Oh, I’m high. Just not that high.”

“What are you looking for?”

“What they did.” for a moment, there’s quiet as Sherlock rapidly flicks through his own mind.

“Found it.”

“Found what?”

“The entirety of my life from when I was seven until now has been a great, big experiment; I want to turn the tables. August.” At her cue, August takes a little black flash drive and plugs it into the box in front of Sherlock.

“Press the button,” he snaps. She does, and the screens in front of Sherlock light up like the fourth of july as new code in a language Sally doesn’t recognize floods an oddly blank space of mind. 

“What did you just do?”

“The same personality that just jacked John is now in my head,” Sherlock says calmly as he shuts the machine down.” August detaches the plug from Sherlock’s back and replaces the cap. Sherlock pulls an undershirt and button down on. 

“Why would you do that?” Lestrade’s not angry yet, though Sherlock reckons he has no more than thirty seconds.

“It’s simple- this personality won’t want another of himself walking around. Now, all that’s left to do is wait.”

…

“Why not?” John says. 

“Ahh,” the man says as he leisurely pushes himself up. He’s almost six feet tall and well built. 

“Because that way’s already spoken for, this way, however, actually leads somewhere.” After a moment’s pause, he follows the man.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the “p”. “I do, however, know where we’re going.”

“Where?”

“Onward, of course,” John chuckles.

“And we have left the rocks,” the man announces suddenly. John looks down. Below his feet, through mist so thin it may as well not be there, is springy, dark green grass. In the distance is a spindly structure with no walls.

“Where are we now?”

“What hasn’t been spoken for.” There is no more conversation as they head towards the structure.

“A swingset,” John breathes, because he can remember, a very long time ago, something he shouldn’t. he can feel it in the back of his mind. He can- but it’s not clear.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the man says, distracting John.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s just-”

“Cyrus! You found him,” another voice calls. John looks at the rather desolate and rusty playground equipment, which had been empty but a moment ago, only to see a figure sitting in an old and dirt-covered seat.

“Cyrus?” John says, confused, because the only Cyrus he knows is-

“I’m in my head,” he breathes, awestruck by this new development.

“You were supposed to tell him that before he got here,” the man says.

“Vince?”

“The one and only,” he rises and says with a bow.


	31. Twisted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a twisted chance

Sherlock gives a customary tug to the bottom of his shirt before tucking it in and pulling on the suit jacket he’d shed for the synching. 

“Don’t touch that!” Sherlock snaps as Sally reaches to touch his machinery. A while back, he had an intense stint of curiosity with the M.P.R.T. and its ways and developed a portable version of it. He could understand why Sally would want to touch it; she has a degree in programming and his portable M.P.R.T. is the only one in the world.

“Why not, Freak?”

“It’s not insulated against stupidity,” he snipes back as August suddenly seems to remember her function and, after a wicked grin, pointedly ignores Sally while efficiently breaking down the different components and returning them to their cases.

“ _ Now _ they’re insulated,” Sherlock says as he shuts the last box. 

“Well-” Donovan starts.

“Enough! What did you do?” Lestrade says.

“Turned myself into bait,” Sherlock says as he rolls his head. At any moment he could-

_ Well this is an interesting turn of events _ , a voice in his head says.

So it seems. Name?

_ Jim, I suppose _ . The bored tone at being asked so simple a question lets Sherlock know that he definitely has the right piece of data. He’s been lost in thought for too long, because when he starts to pay attention, Sally’s trying to arrest him.

“You two.” Lestrade snaps. 

“In the car. Now.”

“I don’t take-”

“You do today.” He says, interrupting Sherlock’s objections to riding in a cop car. Ten minutes later, all police have left the building, Sherlock’s things are put away, and the Yard is the destination.

“Of all the things for you to just do!” Lestrade gripes at Sherlock. The detective is reclined in the front seat, with August in the back.

_ You could strangle him. He wouldn’t know what’s coming. _ Sherlock ignores the voice. It’s hardly conductive to the task at hand. He watches the traffic go by as Lestrade rant.

“Do you realize what happens when you go off the rails?”

“Badly done.”

“I-what?”

“The metaphor,” Sherlock says, “is a bad one, because I have never been on the rails in the first place, so to speak.”

“I don’t care about the metaphor!” He seems to run out of steam, then, because he says nothing else. A look at him clarifies that Lestrade definitely has more steam, he’s simply made a tactical retreat. (Most likely to figure out the best way to dispel the rest of the steam.)

“And you! One would think that at least one of you would have some damn common sense!” Lestrade explodes again, seemingly remembering that he was aided and abetted by the lady in the back seat.

“Sorry and shit,” Beck says, more preoccupied with the morose thoughts flitting across her face than anything Lestrade says. 

The rest of the ride passes in silence, and before either of them know it, they’re being  ushered into the Yard’s conference room. Sherlock and August take seats next to each other. It doesn’t take long for the rest of the minions to amass.

“What happened?” a near-frantic officer asks, walking in like she’s got a lot of business to chew through. She doesn’t. She does, however, pick her kids up today. He bets that was a nasty divorce.

In short order, the seats are filled.

August mentally braces herself, because this is going to get a little bit crazy.

 

…

 

“Why a swing set?” John asks. Vince half raises both hands, then lets them fall again. 

“Don’t know. I’ve looked for the memory this belongs with. The rest of this it’s gone.” John steps onto the woodchip ground inside the old, worn-out black barrier. 

“But it can be retrieved?”

“Sure. If you can find it in the void.” Cyrus says with a smirk. John ignores it. Instead, he picks up a few wood chips. When would he ever have-

A boy. He walks out of the mist, which, though no thicker than before, somehow concealed four feet of body, and, after a slight pause, valiantly steps onto the little playground. He takes a seat on the swingset and plays there for a moment. 

Out of the mist, John can see the blurry silhouette of a woman- who, he doesn’t know- that turns her head as she walks, as though looking. A watery, undistinguished voice calls out in… something. John doesn’t know. Whatever world the boy had been lost in spits him back out in time for him to jump from the seat and run away, dirt on the seat of his coveralls, a few wood chips stuck to one of his sagging shin-high socks. 

“What the hell…?” John says to himself as the woman comes closer. Then the woman, three feet from the playground, materializes.

“Boy! Where’ve you got to? It’s time for dinner!” she calls again. Oh. She’s not what she appeared to be when John couldn’t quite see her. She is tired. Not just ready for bed, no, it seems as if her soul is willing to depart early, just to find some rest. The bags under her eyes are light, but the wrinkles of a woman he knows is not yet forty (why?) are deeper than an old widow’s who’s spent her life frowning. 

“John!” She calls again, “Get back here! You’re father’s home!” Her dress, which had seemed nice, is threadbare. Her skin is unhealthily colored. Her blond hair, which had once been wild and lovely, was dull and in need of a shave. 

She made an exhausted, messy picture.

“John! He’ll be out for you soon!” Abruptly, he realizes that these vaguely threatening phrases are actually warnings. If nothing else, this woman cares.

“Dammit, John! Don’t make me do this!” She steps off the playground and continues on. John turns to follow her when-

“Snap the hell out of it!” He feels a force on his jaw- a punch. Yes. He feels a punch- which he immediately returns, to the sound of an _oomph_. 

“Vince! What was that for!” John snaps. 

“Come off it, John, you had that coming,” Cyrus drawls from where he had grabbed his arm.  

“Did not!”

“Let me explain,” Cyrus says with a sarcastic air of helpfulness.

“You cannot just hop the fuck into your own mind, hop the fuck into your own void, and then hop the fuck back. This is your mind. You compromise the stability doing that shit.” 

“Well, maybe if you’d explained that instead of leading me on I wouldn’t have done it!” John begins to struggle again, and succeeds in freeing himself

“Yeah, because you would have just taken that so well.”

“Well enough!”

John stops a moment to catch his breath. He eyes Vince.

“What was that?” he says, referring to the woman.

“A memory,” Cyrus says. 

“A real, fragmented memory.”

 

…

 

“We shouldn’t be afraid of killing him,” Sally says. Every pair of eyes swing to her. 

“We’re not killing John.” August says slowly.

“That’s not John. That’s a random, highly dangerous collection of code that should have never been able to resurface.”

“John is in there somewhere.”

“As far as I’m concerned, ‘John’ died when he was seven.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock cuts in.

“Oh, come off it, Sherlock, we all know full well you don’t want to kill your darling. Your vote doesn’t even count.”

“He is not ‘my darling’, you insufferable ball if idiocy. Furthermore, that is an actual personality you were speaking with the last time we were here!”

“Is not! He’s just a bunch of programming who asks just like you, only quieter!”

“Is not!” In his head:  _ Why can’t she just… die? _

Then I’d have to condition someone else, Sherlock responds.

“Is-”

“Amazing,” a voice from the speakers says. As one, all heads turn to look. One of the Violotouch tablets has come online, projecting an image of a man’s silhouette. 

“How tiny your minds can be. It must be so boring,” he continues.

“Do you have a name?”

“Jim. As is that personality in your head. Let’s make a deal.” the man points at Sherlock.

“Get rid of that,” clearly referring to the copy of himself, whose begun to giggle at the turn of events, “and you can have Victor Trevor.”

 


	32. Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August remembers.

Victor Trevor. Sherlock’s one-time friend, partner… and dead as a doornail for six long, trying years. To bring him back though… what would that entail? What would it mean for Sherlock? Regaining the life of the one person he’d ever fallen in love with sounds like paradise, and a  _ yes _ is already on the tip of his tongue… but that would imply everything that came with Victor. 

While he’s very sure that regaining the man Vic was would be fairly simple, could he return to the state they left behind? Could they go back to the way things were before? Does Sherlock even want to?

“Abso-fucking-not!” Sherlock blinks. They’d kept arguing without him. Irritating. It’s his choice, after all. There’s no sense in arguing when the man who makes the decision isn’t listening. The Violotouch screen had gone blank three minutes ago, and the fighting’s already reached eruption levels. 

August, too is being strangely quiet as she thinks about the choice. Thinking back, Victor was probably one of the few people who she wasn’t ashamed or too shy to be herself around. All that confidence, and none of it real. 

Her brows are drawn slightly inward, and she looks a bit evil like that.

Right. Back to the question at hand. Victor may be frozen in time (at the most, he remembers flipping the car. At least, he remembers not shit.) But it’s not exactly that simple. The state they’d achieved with each other was the product of the four of them, functioning together. Now Miles is dead, and August is all but estranged, Victor won’t have memories of the last six years, and Sherlock has passed that time either high or deducing or both. 

The only one who’d be the same is Victor.

And what about Sherlock’s own feelings, the blasted things can’t just be frozen and then thawed out when the time comes. He doubts that what he feels now is still the love he had then. No, it feels more like an obsession tinged with desperation and sprinkled with denial, if he’s being honest. 

All his memories of Victor are in mausoleums, for god’s sake. Distantly, he hears someone say something about Victor not being a person. Movement in his peripheral draws him back. That’s August, and she’s not supposed to move. Not for another three minutes. 

For whatever reason, she’s attempting to murder Sally. Or, at least, beat her up something awful. 

“Oi!” Lestrade’s shouting. He’s caught August about the wrist and the waist.

“You are talking about things you don’t understand!” She screams at Sally, face reddening in anger; it seems as though all the pain has finally begun to boil over.

“He is! Victor Trevor is a program this Freak just happens to like,” at this, she jabs a hand at Sherlock, palm up. 

“He was more than that and if you’d been there you’d KNOW!” She gives another jerk at Lestrade’s iron grip. 

“Calm down or I’ll have you out of here!” August takes half a dozen deep breaths.

“What? Did your research not confirm that he was more than machinery? Were you to busy trying to turn Sherlock into a wolf that you forgot to fully understand what happened? What did you want? What was so important that you lied your way into my flat and then got my damn fiance killed!?” She yells. Every officer in the room is looking at Donovan now. 

This is news to them.

“How did he die, then?”

“In a crash.” she exhales, eyes still burning.

“Who’s fault?”

“Victor’s, you stupid bitch,” she spits with all the venom of a king cobra.

“How do you know?” August peeled open part of her mouth in a lopsided laugh, looking more deranged by the second.

“Because I was there.” Then, the memory rises up and she feels it so acutely that she falls silent for a few moments.

 

…

 

_ Her giggles were infectious, and the both of them were howling with laughter as they picked up speed on the first straight of the race. They hit the first bend and August was white knuckling the handle at the top of the roof next to the door, adrenaline blowing her pupils wide and turning her body stiff as they came out of the first bend.  _

_ She felt the car’s kick as Victor pressed on the gas and switched gears at the same time. The first lap passed, the car got quiet, though the excitement is no less on August’s part. They roll through the first straight and curve, just barely ahead of Sherlock and Miles, in the other car.  _

_ On the second straight, August looks to her driver. She felt the drop in happiness. The moroseness that’d dragged Vic’s mood down lately had returned.  _

_ “Victor?” she asks over the growl of the engine. Another gear shift. Another increase in speed.  _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “What’s wrong?” _

_ “Nothing.”  _

_ “Don’t be like that, Vic,” August said, worry staining her voice as the second curve comes up upon then.  _

_ “I’m not. Nothing’s wrong with me,” August watched Victor with worry in her eyes. People said that to her all the time. She said that all the time. Nothing’s ever wrong. _

_ “Bullshit,” she said softly. Victor begins to pull up off the gas pedal as the first curve comes upon them. Just a second being each other, both Victor and Sherlock drift around the curve of the track, rock wall rising high and proud above them.  _

_ “Vic-” August said, worried, because Victor’s grip has just tightened on the wheel. Before she can complete his name, he pulls the car left and steps on the pedal, bashing the front left tire and hood against the rock wall and causing the car to spin and the airbags to deploy. _

_ August instinctively grabbed her seat and the handle as she screams. A second force, and they’re spinning the other way, flipping over the metal guardrail, shattering the front windshield, and sliding, upside down, down the slope. The hood of the car hits a tree on the right side and their spinning again to the distinct sound of the already shattered front lights crunching further.  _

_ The car has begun to loose velocity, and oddly enough, the thing August will recall later, in the hospital, is that the car will slow according to the effects of gravity, which will aid the speed in the y direction at -9.8 m/s^2, the steepness of the slope (the sharper the slope, the greater the effect of gravity), and the weight of the car and the surface of both the car and the ground, which is metal on primarily grass and leaves, will create friction, a force that goes against the motion, and the friction of the this may or may not be enough to slow the car enough to stop it from flipping over the second guard rail they’re drawing nearer to by the second.  _

_ It is enough. The car does not flip (momentum in the x direction and gravity in the y), but it does strike and dent the guard rail. August is getting dizzy, breathing too fast as she looked over at Victor, whose eyes are closed and whose head is bleeding. _

_ “Victor,” she said, scared now. _

_ “Victor!” but he wouldn’t open his eyes. She groans, because her head hurt and she was dizzy. There were spots in her vision, and she was sweating hard, both because her breathing was too fast and the low summer blanket of hot, humid clouds made it hard to calm down. Her hands shake as she reached one across the seat and prodded his arm. She whined high in her throat as the pain in her chest increased, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she passed out. _

 

…

 

“Do not speak to me about the validity of Victor’s existence, because you don’t know a thing about it,” she says, eyes filled with pain at remembering, utterly calm now. She straightens up and, after another warning squeeze on her wrist, Lestrade lets her go. 

She retakes her seat and crosses one leg over the other in true Augustian flourish. She raises her chin, trusting her penetrating gaze to do the message-pounding for her. 

Sherlock, who has watched the whole thing in silence, considers cutting August from his list of allies. She’s too emotional, too in pain over what happened. It’s been six years, but she’s no more moved on that he has. 


	33. Crossing Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes the kid gloves off. John learns something interesting.

 

“August,” Sherlock says. It took an entire hour for them to leave (Sherlock had a lot of paperwork to do for Lestrade, and the DI wanted to make sure the both of them were all right).

“Yeah.” 

“Don’t lose control again.” She doesn’t answer right away, choosing instead to just give him the same look she’s given dozens of people in her life.

“Sorry and shit,” she says, finally, before going back to ignoring him. He’d say something smart back, but the only thing appropriately scathing right now, without being petty and off-subject, is about how caring is not an advantage. The problem with saying that one, of course, is that when less than two hours ago someone offers to give you back your dead lover and you sat there and considered it and nearly said yes right then and there, well… he doesn't have much room to speak.

“This is not an option,” Sherlock persists as he unlocks the door to the flat and lets the both of them in. August follows him up the stairs. “If you lose it again, I’m going to send you home.”

“Shut up,” August hisses as she follows him into the flat. She doesn’t take off the worn, brown oxfords on her feet; opting instead to simply unbutton her coat and leave it there. “And listen very carefully. I am not your toy. You do not get to control what I do or how I do it. If you have a problem with my emotions, deal with them in your head.” he wasn’t expecting this response. 

“Furthermore, you are not the only one who cared about Victor or Miles, so do remember that the next time you’re acting as though I’m irrational.” Irrational? Yes, she was being irrational! They’re all irrational! He’s so done with the pretending to.

“You did not care about Miles or Victor in the same way, so don’t act like you did.” August raises both arms half way.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re looking for ‘closure’, you stupid creature. And since you seem to have grown duller in the six years since I’ve seen you, let me paint the picture of your actions thus far!” he can just barely see August’s pupils growing smaller, as though she’s scared of what he’ll say. As though this is her breaking point.

“You first started dating Miles in our mutual second year of college. However, you knew him from one of your freshmen classes, knew he wanted you and that he wouldn’t ask because he was too shy for it, and let him hang there, watching, all the time. In other words, you decided to start off with being a tease.

“Then, somewhere in you simple little mind, you decided that you wanted him, so you eventually did go out together and before he left he was extremely nervous. After, he was the happiest I’d ever seen him. 

Here’s the problem with that: you were bound to break up. You’re mother is bipolar, and you like to feel like you're in control and like you’re needed, which is what you were after, in the back of your mind.

“Then, when you found out what it’s like being the significant other of someone with a mental illness, you decided it wasn’t for you, and broke up with him. So, the next time I see him, he’s in tears, all broken up because he was not normal enough for you. He blamed himself, over that, by the way. After that, after you let him hang like that for two months and three days, you conclude that you don’t like being lonely, after having sex with no less than one man and two other women. So you got back with him, and the stupid git let you. 

“And you did this over and over and over again, right up until he caught a bullet in his brain. Every time you broke up, you found someone else and when back to him, because you were cold for a bit too long. You’re right, he did murder himself, but he was still suicidal, and it’s partially your fault, regardless of what he was about to do,” Sherlock bit out. He’d deduced most of that as it was happening all those years ago.

“We’re not the same, because you quit. In fact, you didn’t just quit. You quit again and again because you are irrational. You are selfish, compulsive, and narcissistic. You have every problem with being kept in anticipation about the actions of anyone you date but that was the game you played with Miles and he ate it hook, line, and sinker. Do not tell me otherwise, because we both no it’s true. 

August is staring at him like he’s the one that killed Miles. Like he intends to kill her. He has a second to conclude that he should have shut up before she starts to move. 

Her mouth twists in an ugly little swirled line. Sherlock gets a second to rethink the wiseness of attacking her history.

“I’m done. Solve the case on your own. Best of luck,” she says, throwing both hands up, turning around, and marching right back down the stairs. Sherlock hears Mrs. Hudson’s voice, along with August’s deeper register. Then the door is shutting, leaving Sherlock alone once more. That was the wrong move, Sherlock knows. That was definitely the wrong move. He’d meant to prevent her from doing something rash and tipping their collective hand. Now the hand’s just singular. How had let it devolve into a messy tell-all? 

On top of that, there’s more too it. They’re all being watched, and he’d bet his life on her being next. 

She won’t make it, he knows. Something’s going to happen. She’ll get shot through the head or something because Sherlock drove her off and that made her an easy target. He needs to go and get her back. That won’t exactly work, though, because, while August doesn’t hold grudges often, the ones she does can last a long time. 

Which means that, if he wants her alive, he’ll have to find someone else to watch her for him. Mycroft is his first choice. Sherlock won’t though. His brother would make her disappear, yes, but it’s the reappearing that’s the problem. Sherlock sighs and picks up his phone. There's only one other person who would keep her alive for him. Good thing he has a debt to cash. 

 

…

 

August paces out in front of Sherlock’s place, waiting for a cab to turn the corner. How dare he? She doubts Vic had meant to hit Sherlock’s car, but he had no intention of sparing August, meaning that he threw the both of them off that road. Who does he think he is, to act as though what she feels and what’s said about her dead friend doesn’t matter?

She sees the black paint and bright headlights and raises her thumb. Well, she’s done now. SHe can solve Mile’s murder on his own. He can find Vic’s killer on his own. He can go and face down the world on his own, because she is tired of not mattering. 

She didn’t matter enough to play a role in whether or not Vic killed himself on the track. She didn’t matter enough for someone to send her with Miles when he died. She didn’t matter enough to be at least worth Sherlock not saying every fucking thing about her that comes to his mind. 

Well, if she’s doesn’t matter, than she’s going the fuck home. The cab pulls up, and she gets in, gives her address and settles back. Then, the world goes black.

 

…

When she next opens her eyes, it’s to someplace dilapidated and wooden. She’s on the ground, her head hurts, her mouth’s dry. She’s… restrained? She struggles to sit up, and only then realizes how dire the situation is as she reads the note, upside down, in front of her face.

 

_:) LET'S PLAY A GAME :)_

 

… 

 

John sat up. Evidently, he had fallen asleep on the playground. He looks around and sees that his three headmates are around him, watching. 

“You sleeping here is oddly freeing,” Vince remarks as John pushes himself up and looks around at them all.

“What does it feel like?”

“There’s something missing. Before, I could feel your whole head asleep. Now, all I can feel is emptiness.”

“So this means…”

“Whoever boosted you out of your spot doesn’t control yourself like you do. If you were to try, you could probably regain control. Cyrus says where he’s half-leaned against Vince. 

“How do I do that?”

“Easy: just want to be awake.”

“... and you think I’ve just been having the time of my life down here?” Cyrus rolls his eyes and elbows Vince.

“We’ve come to an agreement; you regaining control of your mind is a lot like us materializing in here.”

“So there are times when you’re… unformed?” Cyrus nods.

“We refer to it as ‘sleeping’,” Marcus says, “though, with respect to the way you see it, it’s like being heavily drugged; you have to fight to wake up. Then, you have to fight to be heard. Then you have to fight to control.”

“So I’m guessing that when I woke up on the beach, that was the ‘waking up’ part, and the next step is to be ‘heard’ which is what you guys do when you want to talk to me.”

“Yes, though I suggest you attempt to skip that part, this being a hostile takeover and whatnot."


	34. Challenge No.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August starts the game.

August stared at the note, a vague feeling of dread building in her stomach. She wonders if this is the sort of game you can win or if it’s the sort of game where you can drag out your loss. A door opens behind her, and the twenty something holds herself utterly still. Quite suddenly, a hand trails over her soft curls, and she flinches hard. 

“Ah, so you are awake after all. I’d ask you how you are, but I don’t need to, now do I?” The hand slides further into her hair.

“So then, the game. The rules are simple. I’m going to give you a series of challenges. You beat them all, and you go home. In fact, I’ll make sure you’re able to get there.”

“What sort of challenges?”

“That’s the fun part,” he says. Quite suddenly, a burning, sharp sensation burns across her thigh, and, as she jerks, she falls down, smacking her shoulder, head, then ribcage and the rest of her body on the hard floor.

She lets out a noise, breath hitching in her chest, high, choked breathing easily heard in the loud silence of the room. She distantly hears the door close, a laugh trailing in its wake. She lifts her head when she thinks she can manage it, but her damn neck hurts, so she just drags her head down and sees that she’s bleeding across her thigh.

She flicks her eyes up and stares at the fire that’s throwing off heat like it’s got nothing better to do.

This is almost familiar. She’ll get a series of challenges. This is, in essential, a videogame where you get exactly one chance, one life, one health bar. So she tries to think like a gamer as she looks back at her bloody thigh.

Challenge number one: death by blood loss.

Tools: Fire. Metal machete.

Solution: cauterization.

Careful of her neck, she drags herself across the eight feet distance to the fire and maneuvers the blade of the machete into the fire. As she waits for it to heat, she works a shaky hand over the button of her trousers and starts to drag to down, using her good leg and her position against the fireplace to push herself far enough to get the pants over her ass, letting out a few high pitched breaths as she does.

Slowly, she gets the pants down far enough to see the bloody thigh. She wonders how bad the limp will be, if she’s not already screwed from loss of blood. She recalls, distantly, when she sliced her finger open on the metal top of a tea dispenser and was getting blood everywhere. Later, when her hand was numb from medicine and she was watching the doctor give her sutures, he told her it was actually a lot more than it looks. 

She reminds herself of that as she clamps a hand back down on her thigh and looks at the machete. It’s hot enough. She can’t lose any more blood. She drags the machete out of the fire and positions it so that the only thing she has to do is angle it down just a bit more. She can feel the heat on her skin as she unsticks her hand and moves out of the way.

Beat the challenges. Win the game. Go home. She presses it down and screams around clenched teeth as tears pop out of her eyes and her whole body spasms. After a few moments, her brain muscles past the initial pain and feels all the burning. It’s too much, and she pulls it off, the sound of sizzling flesh replaced by the rip of burned skin and blood. 

She unsticks her teeth and the machete and gasps before looking around. She should wrap it. Wrap it and pull her pants back up. But what? She looks down at her button down. It’s a lovely blue; jewel toned. It’s about to get cut. With the bleeding stopped, she’s feeling like she’s passed at least part of this challenge. Now all that’s left to do is move forwards.

With a great deal of effort, she manages to get the buttons done and the shirt off. She takes the machete and props it up and begins to saw through first one sleeve, then the other. Almost done. She wraps the body of the shirt around her thigh and ties it off with the two sleeves. On her good leg, she reverses the process she went through earlier to pull the pants up and button them. Good. Now she has two layers between her injury and the rest of the world. 

She rolls herself onto her stomach and, from there, up onto her one knee and two hands. She will never make it standing, and she doesn’t have time to find a crutch. She has to go. She makes it to the ramshackle door and, balancing on one leg, the other hurting all the while, attempts to open it. Outside is… cold. Oh, god, it’s cold, and misty. She shrinks back, tempted to return to the fire. 

But the fire has no food, and the fire is not where the next challenge is, so she crawls out onto the rotted, ugly porch and, turning sideways, begins to level herself down the steps. Two steps from the bottom, a board gives way, cutting her hand as she tumbles all the way to the bottom, striking her hip on a hard edge.

She didn’t hear herself scream, but she thinks she may have as she tries to push far enough outside of her own head to move again.

…

At one point, Sherlock had gone on at length about the care and keeping of a mind palace. These things he told John are what shifts slowly through his thoughts now. They have followed him as he searched for a good place to build such a palace. It wasn’t at the playground; felt wrong, like it was too close to something important. 

So, not bothering to search for an answer- he’ll have later to do that- he’d simply begun walking, and they’d followed. He’s no longer worried about an ocean. He’s no longer worried about food. He just wants to build, and that is his compass as he wanders this way and that along the damp-sand beach covered in thick mist. 

He stops.

“Here?” Cyrus asks, coming to stand close to him. 

“Yeah, maybe,” John says as he crouches and sets his fingertips against the sand. Is it here? Or is it farther that way? No. It’s here.

According to Sherlock, a mind palace is actually made of a series of familiar places. John begins with the most familiar. His bedroom is sparse; a twin bed in a far corner, covered in an old, very warm, burnt red comforter with a set of off white sheets beneath it. Next to that, a sturdy (also old) dark brown night table with two drawers that held whatever book he’d not finished yet. Across from the bed had been a matching dresser and a mismatched armoire that was a sight more tan. The desk was on the other side of the night table and had been home to a laptop Sherlock had given him one rather random day. The walls are dark green with a different victorian pattern than the one downstairs. The door out of it is brown. 

This room- this attic room with a sloping roof that almost hindered the armoire and had a door at one end and a window at the other, is what seamlessly builds itself around them. John turns to the door. He has an entire flat to walk through, now. 

…

August is gone, and it’s 24% Sherlock’s fault. He paces, thinking, in a room at the yard, where Lestrade had left him after having encountered what he described as an “emergency”. What could be more of an emergency than the fact that whoever’s been playing with Sherlock is steadily wearing away at the people who would stand with him? 

What’s more interesting than knowing that?

Damn his duties. This is where the real fun’s at. Still, that doesn’t bring August back. Sherlock considers the likely hood of her living but, to be honest, it’s rather frightfully small, should John Doe not want her alive, and frightfully high, if he’s of the other persuasion. 

Sherlock turns once more. 

_ You’re pacing is irritating _ , observes Jim.

“Is that so?”

_ Yes. _

“Get over it. I’m thinking,”

_ Oh, I can feel it. It’s rather nice. I’ve never seen anyone with this many thoughts going on at once. It’s rather refreshing. _

“Been inside of a lot of heads, then?”

_ Too many, really. It’s gets dull after a while, so I started running experiments. _

Sherlock notices that he’s being watched and abruptly switches to mental speak.

What kind?

_ Oh, seeing things like what schizophrenia feels like and things like that. _

Ah.

_ You, though. You’re too interesting. I’m not going to do that… at least, not until I see how this thing between you and the other me pans out. _

Sounds fun, Sherlock sarcastically commented.

_ It’s gonna be great. _


	35. Nothing At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock figures out the meaning behind his continuing existence. August is in a bad way. John is in a conquering one.

August wakes up again with a splitting headache and a burning leg. She groans as she tries to open her eyes, but can’t find it in her for several minutes. When she finally does, she wishes she hadn’t. There’s too much brightness. 

Everything is reflective- walls, floors, ceiling. There are no cracks, just August’s face and body no matter where she turns in a never ending series of reflections. Somewhere in the back of her mind, something tells her that the number of reflections are limited by the amount of light, as it will eventually be absorbed. 

It’s not helping though. She tries to get up and, accompanied by a spell of dizziness, abruptly vomits on the floor, losing bile and making her head hurt even worse. (The cerebellum, located at the back of the head, controls breathing and fine muscle movements). The mirrors, including the one she’s still kneeling on, reflect the vomit along with everything else. Maybe no standing, then. She drags herself over to one wall, careful not to bump her still hurting thigh, so that she can lean against it. 

If every surface reflects, best not to see one. Her throat hurts with the throwing up, and it’s hard to focus. When she does, she immediately loses it again; the only thing to see in here is herself, and she’s looking quite ugly, just now. 

There’s dirt on her face and arms and clothes, she’s down to an undershirt, with her dress shirt having been converted to a bandage. She’s missing her shoes, and her damn feet hurt. Her hair, short as it is, is wild and in need of a serious wash. There’s leaf bits in her hair. There’s bile on her chin and drool on her nose and mouth (some of it’s dried, forming a white, vague line). She’s shaking, her face is slack like she’s high or something, and her head still hurts and it. Is. Too. Bright.

Quite suddenly, there are spiders. Spiders everywhere, crawling out of invisible holes, skit-skittering across the reflective walls, dripping from the ceiling. Though it makes her whole body hurt, she draws back into the corner as some of them stumble through her stomach acid tears squeeze out of her eyes and her breath hitches and her throat starts to hurt even worse.

She pisses herself, the warm spread of shame quickly cooling and it scares her even worse. She feels movement in her hair and smacks it against the mirrors. They’re going to crawl inside her and hollow her out. Another smack. They’re going to hurt her. And another. She feels a crack, then something warm and wet welling up and sliding down her head. They’re going to eat her alive. One more swing, and her eyes close, awareness winking out of existence.

She doesn’t want to be awake for this.

“I think she forgot what’s happening.”

“Do you now?”

 

…

 

_ Wake up! _

Sherlock bolts upright in bed.

“Shut the hell up. I’m trying to sleep.”

_ And I’m bored. _

“Poor baby.” Sherlock says as he climbs out of bed and fixes himself some tea. It’s one in the morning, and normally, John would be down to see what’s happening. He’d probably take the job off Sherlock’s hands. But John’s not here, because Sherlock wasn’t careful.

Just like that, his mood’s dipped to something so foul that even his headmate comments on it.

_ Oh, someone’s upset. _ Sherlock ignores him. How to beat John Doe. That is the question, really.

_ God, his name is Jim Moriarty, stupid.  _ Right, Moriarty. To beat him. Or is that the question really? If Moriarty was really so worried that there was a second him sitting in Sherlock’s head like a hotel, he would have knocked the detective. Nevermind August. Never mind anything else; just Sherlock. But that’s not what’s happening here, is it?

He’s playing with Sherlock. He’s waiting, testing for something. But what? Sherlock goes back over the events at hand.

Moriarty hides inside John’s head and then jacks his body at what is literally the most inopportune time to do so before being clipped in the thigh by a bullet.

Then, when Sherlock draws him out by finding and then copying the string of code that is Moriarty into his own head, he’s offered the code of Victor Trevor in exchange for wiping Moriarty.

After that, he kidnapped August and may or may not have killed her (he’s inclined to think no, though. He could have just sniped her)

Now Sherlock’s wandering around the kitchen at 1:00 in the goddamn morning because Moriarty… oh. Oh, he’s restless. If anything, Sherlock would say that he’s being forcibly alienated; from Lestrade, through his consideration of Moriarty’s deal, from August, first by arguing over the validity of her grief (and when has that ever been a good idea?) and then, as it would not have stopped the two from working together, by kidnapping, from John, through jacking, from Mrs. Hudson, by the sheer business that’s sucked all their time together away, and from the rest of the Yard (which was never all that sociable to Sherlock, anyway.

The detective is completely alone, leaving his only working company to be the one inside his head. Of course, this means that Sherlock will spend a lot of time inside his head himself, leading to the possibility of a mental breakdown, due to undue strain caused by two people who are not working together to share the same space, like a mind…

He’s trying to see who’ll win.

He wants to see just how strong Sherlock is. 

And what better way to do that than to throw him into the harshest mental strength test Sherlock’s ever seen?

 

…

 

“So all I have to do is push?” Cyrus nods as they sit on the sofa in John’s mental apartment, drinking mental tea while Magnus stares out of John’s conjuration of the street outside of 221B and Vince plays the piano in 221C (John, having no connection to that particular part of the house outside of making sure the dimensions are correct, put it in there for him after Cyrus pointed out that no conjuration is stronger than John’s). 

The aimless wandering of keys tells John that Vince is just as distracted as Magnus, who has alternated between sitting in John’s chair (not Sherlock’s), sitting at John’s feet, and pacing. 

“He’s a virus, John; a mental parasite. This place is so much weaker since he took over; there’s no telling what will happen if he remains at the helm.”

“Why?”

“He knows you’re in here somewhere; he’s pulling power towards himself, because when you choose to attack, it will be with the certainty that your own mind wants you back in charge.”

“What do you think he’s doing?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never seen him before; it’s impossible to sense other personalities in the void.” John rises and turns to offer a hand to Cyrus.

“Now, then.”

“Now?”

“Vince! We’re going!” Abruptly, the piano’s unschooled ramblings cut off and Vince appears at the door. Ah, the power of mentally teleportation. Too bad it only works where something is welcome.

In short order, the quadruple find themselves outside of 221B. For a moment, John feels a splash of uncertainty, and then-

“What are you waiting for?” A deep voice says from beside him. John turns to look and there, standing as though he’s genuine, is Sherlock fucking Holmes.

“Why?” John says, looking to Vince or Cyrus or anyone who can tell him why Sherlock’s here, because-

“It’s like that little voice inside your head that tells you something’s a bad idea; it’s not separate from you, but it helps to think of it like that,” Vince quickly says. John nods.

“Nothing,” John says to the Sherlock before walking down to where Baker St. ends in a wall of fog.

“Nothing at all.”


	36. Brother, Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins his treck. Donovan takes care of things.

“Where’s August?” Sherlock barely gives Donovan a glance as he continues pacing.

“Kidnapped four hours ago.”

“And you didn’t say anything.”

“It texted Lestrade.”

“Lestrade’s busy.”

“Well, that’s not my problem, is it?”

“Holmes…” Donovan never said that. Saying “Holmes” is the word she uses when she’s about to kill something (named Sherlock).

“Well, it’s not like we don’t know who kidnapped her.”

“That doesn’t mean this shouldn’t be done right.” She gets a bored look.

“Stop fooling yourself. The only reason you give a damn is because you got Miles killed, then you payed Irene Adler, of all people, to get information from her, then you proceeded to tell her that Victor, the person she so clearly cared for, wasn’t real and that she therefore should have no problem with him being gone and all this makes you feel guilty.”

“It’s my job to investigate kidnappings.”

“But you’d rather help August so you don’t have to feel so guilty.”

“Why was she outside  your flat?”

“She was mad.”

“Mm hmm.” Like that’s all there is too it. 

“Look, if you want to help, don’t interrupt. I’m trying to think.” Donovan gives him a long look before stalking out the door. 

An hour later, she walks into the sleek Lilac Animations building and up to the secretary. The woman looks up.

“Yes?”

“Hi. My name is Sally Donovan. I’m a detective with Scotland Yard and I’d like to speak with Mr. Clyde Marion.” She says, pulling out her badge and flashing it. 

The secretary starts. She wasn’t expecting that one. Soon enough, though, she’s escorting Donovan, in full uniform, through the building to Marion’s office.

“Sir?” She asks with a knock.

“Yes?”

“Visitor for you.”

“Come in, then.” The old voice says. Soon enough, she finds herself cocooned in a very artsy office. Character and scene designs from dozens of animations are tacked to the wall, all of which have at least one signature, (the cork board directly behind Marion seems to have drawings from one particular animation. Dark wood and sleek furniture off set the plethora of art.

Marion himself is quite short, maybe five six, old enough that his face is a mass of wrinkles (but still handsome). His head is hairless, though his neat goatee is thick and white and wavy. He has black studs in his large ears and a gold marriage ring on his left hand, a black, masculine band on his index. His rolled shirt sleeves reveal arms that still possess a wiry sort of strength. Rectangular glasses sit low on his nose, the zagg’s half frames a pale purple-grey that accents his crystalline, hooded eyes. 

“Mr. Marion?” Donovan asks. The old man rises, stepping from behind the desk and extending an abnormally large hand. 

“That’s me,”

“My name is Sally Donovan. I’m a detective with Scotland Yard. When was the last time you saw Rebecca W. Augustine?” Not once in their tumultuous association has Donovan ever heard August referred to as Augustine or Rebecca. The full name is strange and foreign on her tongue now. 

Marion fingers his suspenders. (Nerves, worry, Sally thinks. Sherlock is not the only person who can read people). 

“Ah… I’d have to look up the actual date, but it was almost two months ago. The last time I talked to her she said she needed a few weeks to arrange for her boyfriend’s funeral. I told her to take a few weeks more.” Donovan nods. 

“Do you know of anyone who would have had reasons make Miss Augustine disappear?”

“No. She’s self contained, a good teammate.” the corner of that old mouth quirks up in memory.

“Would any of your staff know anything about her?”

“Ah… she’s pretty distant, but if there’s anyone, it’s Artemis Vine- she and August do the storyboarding- and Coriander Zane, one of our resident creative directors.” 

“Would you mind calling them in?”

 

…

 

The second time John walks back to the rock shelf, he is not confused, but easily hops the obstruction. The entire object feels lower, now.

“It represents less,” his Sherlock says as he bounds up behind him. John laughs a bit. Even in his mind, Sherlock is the more agile of the two. John waits for the rest of his group to join them.

“What now?” Cyrus sweeps his arm out over the dry rocks on this side of the shelf.

“We’re in Central’s territory now. No one knows what’s past here.” John takes a second look at the endless plane of small pebbles, shrugs, and chooses a direction. He picks up a trot. The four other sets of feet following him are comforting and strengthening.

He can do this. It’s his head, after all.

Presently, the mist thickens once again before falling away abruptly to reveal a massive, tower that looks more like a stalagmite. He stops and stares up at the cluster of towers, the inner ones getting progressively and erratically higher.

“That’s Central?”

“Probably,” Cyrus says.

“It could be an illusion. Assuming that your usurper is, indeed, just another personality that didn’t fall apart in the Void,” Sherlock says, “then he’ll have the same abilities as these three.” Cyrus snorts. 

“Even imaginary Sherlock is disdainful. If I didn’t know better I’d say you have a thing for the detective, Johnny.” John rolls his eyes and picks up his pace, taking advantage of he fact that stamina works differently inside the mind than it does outside of it.

Eventually, they reach the lowest skyscraper. When they do, the mist is so thick that they’ve each got a hand on one another to stay grounded. Mind-Sherlock glances at John.

“Conjuring armor would be helpful.” John doesn’t answer for a moment, then black combat gear is covering all of them.

“Better?”

“Better.” John, on a whim, reaches out and sets his hand against the odd surface of the building. A doorway only an inch taller than Sherlock appears, and the five of them disappear inside Central.

 

…

 

“Brother, dear, it won’t do to push me away, now.” Mycroft drawls as he sits in John’s chair. Sherlock plays a grating note on his instrument. He gets an eyeroll for his trouble.

“I have information.” Another note.

“I know where he’s keeping John.” The note eases out into something tolerable.

“Where?”

“Where do you think?”

 


	37. Suspended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and his headmates venture into Central, and Sherlock does a little coding on the go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has had patience with me so far.

“DON’T LET THEM TOUCH YOU!!” Vince yells out as the five of them scurry and dodge, trying to avoid the… what are they?

“Vince! What are they!?”

“I don’t know!” He yells out as he catches up with John and just barely knocks them out of the way of another projectile. John spares Vince a look and realize that, even as they’re running, Vince is remembering. Just like that, the scenery changes. 

They’re not running through the minotaur’s maze of the lower level of Central. Instead, they’re running across a desert, mines blowing sky high in random spots, made scarier by the accompanying towers of sand that shot up and dispersed with the explosions. John gets a buzzing in the back of his head and dodges left, and the rest follow suit.

As he darts past, the place he would have run over blows up. 

“Follow me!” John shouts. Again, he moves to the left, then, a few yards on, to the right, left, left, left, then cuts a diagonal path to make what appears to be a door that has materialized out of the desert, the bottom buried in an inch or two of sand.

With a last, powerful push, he throws himself at the door, twists the handle and slams through the suburban piece of wood, followed by his group. Mind-Sherlock, the second through, turns around and catches Vinces, who’s got his hands shoved into his short hair, staring off into the distance, a look of… emptying on his face. 

Mind-Sherlock wraps his arms around Vince’s body and rocks.

“It’s okay. They aren’t real. None of it’s real.” As he murmurs lowly to John’s headmate, the rest of them realize that there is no wall between this “house” they’ve made it to and the desert they left. It’s merely an invisible barrier. On the one side, yellow sand and bombs periodically exploding goes off. On the other side, shiny hardwood gleams as though it’s just been polished. The entryway they stand in has a coatrack and, below it, a shoe cubby. 

The walls have a floral pattern of burgundy paisley against mint green walls. A tiffany lamp covers the fixture that hangs above their heads, immaculately polished and throwing warm shades of red and yellow and blue light over them and against the wall. The coat rack and shoe cubby are on the left wall, if one faces the door. On the right wall is a series of portraits. John studies them and abruptly realizes why they just ran through mine field. 

This is a mindscape- a place subject to its inhabitants. Whoever controls John’s body right now does not want them making it through the outer layers of Central. What better way to do that than to make mind-bendingly specific challenges. 

Vince is a soldier and they just ran through a mine-field. He’s not even aware that they’re not about to be blown up anymore. John glances at him. His eyes are closed, and his head is resting against Mind-Sherlock’s shoulder. He grips a bicep with one hand and seems to be concentrating on his breathing. 

He looks at the portraits again. Whose nightmare is this? In the first portrait is a bulky older man, silvering at the temples, sun tanned and prematurely wrinkled. His eyes are relaxed in the portrait, but it’s clear that this is not his normal state of things. His suit, of which John can only see the shoulders, is a dark navy. His tie matches, and his tie clip it white. His taste is good, but he doesn’t have a flair for the dramatic.

The next portrait is of a woman. Where the man had his done from a three quarter view, the woman’s shoulders are facing front, just as both of their faces. She, too, seems old beyond her years and richer than her means would indicate. How odd, that this scene is set in the house of a stereotypically rich couple. 

The next picture is of what John is guessing is their red-headed son and what he knows is, in fact, Cyrus, who’s motor mouth has fallen mysteriously silent. His normally dramatically teased, layered, and spiky red mohawk, seems to have been forced into submission, as the copper strands lay oddly flat against his head. The sides are shaved, and, though it seems so odd to see this, his lip and eyebrow piercings are both empty, and the normal black hoops that curled round his lobes have been placed by a set of small, modest diamonds. He is not smiling, and his slanted eyes are narrowed. His chin, tilted up, allows him to literally look down his nose at the camera, highlighting his mouth and cheekbones. 

John smiles. Someone didn’t want to take the picture. Cyrus snorts and walks down the hall. However, this man lives in John’s head. He knows when someone’s scared, and Cyrus is all but quaking.

 

SHERLOCK

 

Never let it be said that the Holmes boys are not masterminds. The elder and the younger sit together, tea in hand, and watch. On the Violotech monitors, operatives of some sort (Mycroft knows the sort, and Sherlock doesn’t care), exit two black vans. They raid a warehouse set on a large, unmanned, and barren property, first scouting the area, then checking for traps about the entrances and exits, then entering in through the front door.

The two sit emotionless and still as they canvas the empty, droughty space of the warehouse’s interior before one of them uncovers a trap door. Nearly all back up as they check it for traps, then drop down one at a time to canvas what satellites and sonar have already identified as a veritable labyrinth. 

It takes them a full hour to canvas the entire place, and it takes them even longer to find the only thing Sherlock cares about right now. Every room, every hallway, every outlet has been empty, cleared, wiped, cleaned, and erased; all evidence of life taken with them. Except, in a single room, there is what appears to be a SAC, or Suspended Animation Capsule, designed to host an unconscious body for as long as inhumanly possible with minimal tampering from outside care.

It is a bed with a transparent cover over it. It is just barely wide enough to fit its occupant but noticeably longer than the body. There are tubes attached to the nose and mouth, and sticky pads pressed against wrist and neck. The conditions of the capsule and the patient's vitals are displayed on a small screen roughly as large as a tablet.

The “bed” part has no covers, of course, but rows of holes no larger than those of a child’s recorder. It seems they heat and cool the tube, as it’s filled with liquid. The body floats in the middle, naked. Sherlock, watching from a live-action camera on the shoulder of a soldier, knows from the dimensions of the body that it is, indeed, John Watson. Which, of course, poses a problem.

The thing about a SAC is that, if you put someone into one, then you have to bring them out of it. If they just drain the capsule and bring in the body, they’ll be stuck with only a body; they can drain them, but first they’ll have to wake him before they unplug him. Sherlock moves the screen to check and- yes, his plug is hooked up as well.

Sherlock waits patiently for them to set the equipment up. Mycroft nods next to him (though Sherlock pays no mind) so Sherlock pulls up a screen and links into the soldiers’ intercoms. 

“Testing.”

“Confirmed,” the leader of the squad says.

“Show me the tower.” Though the term is a bit outdated, considering the fact that the term “tower” refers to the box that holds a computer’s components, and the components kept at the head of the SAC, directly behind the wall that holds the fluid. 

The soldier moves so that Sherlock can see where they’ve taken off the cover to expose where the tube hooked up to the back of John’s head connects with the tower. Sherlock watches as they plug what looks like a thumb drive into the jack near the upper edge of the tower. 

Sherlock lets out a sigh and Mycroft knows that that is the moment that he switches into coding. In hidden admiration, he watches the data fly. 

 


	38. Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August is back, and she's in a bad way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably highly inaccurate, as far as police procedures go, but whatever. Let me know what you think!

The morning they find August is cold, cracking skin and reddening noses, ears, and fingertips. The sky is overcast, the wind bitter; timelessly London. The pavement’s cracked, plants valiantly growing through the opposition. The fence around the place is rusted, and without spikes at the top. In it is a single car.

In another place, Donovan types on her laptop at work, fingers flying across the keyboard. At sixty nine words per minute, she’s a fair hand at the simple art. She’s thinking about August’s friends, how she didn’t seem to have many, how oddly she must have come across to them. 

“Tell me something,” Anderson says as he leans against the corner of her desk.

“Yeah?”

“What are you going to do when you find her?”

“Put her in a hospital.” Anderson rolls his eyes.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, that’s the answer you’re getting.” Sally finishes her report, emails it to Lestrade and grabs her jacket.

“Let’s go.” it’s their turn to patrol, as evidenced by the duo of returning police officers, done with the morning shift. She shuts down her windows and logs out before pushing in her chair.

Their car cruises around the town, minding the roads, watching for suspicious behavior. At eight in the evening, they pass the old lot with the new car. Sally feels something in the back of her mind- a don’t pass that that makes her pull into the lot.

“What are you doing?”

“This lot isn't free parking,” Donovan mutters as she pulls into the lot. She parks a safe distance away and steps out, unhooking her gun from her holster and palming it, safety still on. With Anderson on the other side, they circle the car. 

From what Sally can see, there’s no one in the seats or on the floorboards and no personal artefacts anywhere in the car. Anderson checks the license plate out, heading back to the car to access the computer. He nods at her. Stolen.

“It’s a rental from Janis Cars,” he said. With the identity of the car down, the feeling should go away, but it doesn’t.

“I’m going to call it in,” Anderson says.

“Wait,” Sally steps closer to the trunk and pulls on a pair of powdered, white gloves. Anderson does the same with his own packet. Carefully, she approaches the trunk, gun still in hand. After a moment of thought, she holsters it, then slides her fingers along the protrusion above the license plate until she finds a compressible bit. The dull thud of a disengaging catch accompanies the trunk opening the smallest amount. A needle falls out, followed by another, and another. 

She looks at Anderson, who runs to the car for his camera bag. When he returns, one camera in hand, Sally takes a deep breath and bends down to pick up a needle. There’s a thin, slightly cloudy substance inside the needle. A piece of tape is stuck to the outside. On it:

_ Shoot Me, Sherlock _

“Donovan, we need to call this in,”

“Just Lestrade.” Anderson shakes his head before kneeling and setting up the tripod, putting a second camera there to record at a good angle. He steps closer and, trying to stay out of the way of the shot as much as possible, takes a picture of the needle in Sally’s hand, of the ones on the car, of the cracked trunk, of the pristine condition of the car.

“Alright,” Anderson says, pulling out his phone and wedging it between his shoulder and ear after hitting the speed dial button.

Sally looks at the needles at her feet for a moment. One is cracked, leaking fluid of the same kind onto the ground.

“Hello?”

“We’ve got an abandoned, stolen car with needles in trunk with Sherlock’s name on them and an unknown substance,” as he talks, Sally begins to set up a barrier, taping off the entrance to the lot and setting down a triangle marked 1 at their feet.

“On my way.” Half an hour later, there’s another police car that Sally removes the tape for. Less than a minute after the fact, Sherlock steps out of a cab and ducks under the crime scene tape. Sally and Donovan, who have taken the time to put on booties (and Sally’s tied her hair back), both move out of the way. Sherlock is unusually quiet (though Sally doubts it will remain that way) as he crouches and examines the already fallen needles. Sally thinks she hears him mutter “clever”.

“We’ll need something to catch the rest; we don’t know if the rest are capped,” Sherlock says. A tarp is held directly underneath the popped trunk as Sherlock carefully eases the lid all the way up. In the trunk are two things.

The first is that there’s hundreds of needles, all of them with some variation of the first disturbing message.

A bit more, William? Says one.

Don’t be scared of it, Scott?

Interested, Holmes?

Sometimes it’s just one or more of his names. Sometimes it’s spelled out laughter, but everyone contains a message, and everyone has that same substance Sherlock’s been putting in his veins for years.

The other thing is the body. Still in the clothes she disappeared in, August lies bound and gagged in the trunk, out on something (it doesn’t take much to guess what). Her curls are matted, her flesh wasted, one leg abnormally bloody, and she stank, too. The smell of piss and shit, old, spoiled sweat, coppery blood, the musty scent of not showering, and aged vomit damn near choke Sherlock. She’s lost all her flesh, bones standing out like beacons.

The button down she’d been wearing when she stalked out of Sherlock’s flat has been ripped, sleeves around the leg, buttons lost, fabric stained.

“Get an ambulance,” he murmurs, trying to deduce everything. Torture stands out like a beacon; his first deduction from his observations. He doesn’t want to look but, for a brief moment, he looks to her chest, above her breasts, because, in a rainbow of metallic sharpies, someone has written:

_ She didn’t have as much fun as I’d thought ;) _

“August?” He stands back so Anderson can snap his pictures. She stirs briefly before her eyes open and a high whine escapes her misused throat. She opens her eyes and shuts them tight again. Sherlock hadn’t noticed before, but someone had gotten on the phone, because the scene is crawling with officers, now, some of which he doesn’t know.

“August, it’s me, Sherlock. I need you to focus, yeah?”

“Nooo…” she groaned, voice ruined.” She opens her eyes again, seems to recognize Sherlock and, behind him, Sally.

“I want to free your hands. Can you watch me?” Just the barest, unintelligible hint of a yes is all Sherlock gets. It’s all he needs.

“Good, eyes open. I’m going to have to cut it,” he murmurs as he slips a small knife from his coat and presses the button on one end. The knife automatically springs from its sheath. Another whine. Her eyes are wide, and Sherlock can see that she’s not fully comprehending the situation; she’s probably still high, if the Rhapsody that Sherlock knows is in those needles is what was used to drug her.

“Just watch me, yeah?” he says in a low, comforting voice. Drowsily, August watches as Sherlock carefully moves his free hand to the rope- actual rope- holding her wrists in place. It’s been there quite some time, if the skin beneath is anything to go by. Inch by incremental inch, he gets the knife, serrated for three quarters of its length, onto the rope and saws, putting great care into not tugging. 

When the last fibres break, the ambulance pulls up, medical personnel spill out, and they try to get to August. Sherlock holds out a hand in a stop motion and, for once, Sally doesn’t argue, just starts to talk to them.

“August. August!” Sherlock says. She stops looking at the incoming strangers and focuses on Sherlock again.

“They’re going to make it stop hurting, yeah?” a high whine of fear slips loose.

“Let me get that gag, yeah?” Slowly, he frees her trapped voice by untying the knot at the back. It’s painstaking work, and every move August makes brings her closer to more injury. Finally, though, a hoarse voice breaks through.

“Don’t leave me,”

“I’m going to find out who did this to you,” he says, low and quiet in the cold evening air.

“I don’t know them.”

“I’ll watch them. I’ll make sure its okay, you just won’t see them, yeah?” tears leak down out of clean eyes and over dirty skin.

“Okay.” she says after another pause. Then Sherlock is moving round the side of the car to lean over and grasp a hand as the EMTs work to get her onto the stretcher. He doesn’t let go until she’s fully unconscious; passed out in shock.

“She won’t do well in the hospital,” Sally muses as she stands next to him, watching the ambulance pull away.

“No, she won’t.” It’s an odd and serious day when they’re on the same page for anything; they can barely agree on the correct way to breathe.

“Irene…” she says in a soft voice, thinking.

“That could work.” Then he turns back to the scene, firing off deductions into the recorder Lestrade’s taken to carrying around for the cases that Sherlock can’t bother to slow down to explain.  Then he’s gone, on his way back to John or to the hospital. It’s only as she watches him, a lone figure once more, that she realizes the genius of the move. 

These past months are one of the few times he’s had friends- people who care about more than his manners and his deductions. Now, they’ve both been returned broken. John can barely makes sense of the world, as though the SAC has robbed him of his mind, and August physically and mentally pushed beyond her limits and pained in a way that might never stop. 

It’s probably one of the smartest things Sally’s ever seen, though she’ll never admit it. Not to herself, and certainly not to Sherlock.


	39. Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Irene talk. Then Sherlock gets back to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY FIGURED OUT HOW I WANT TO CONTINUE!!! PLEASE COMMENT.

JOHN

 

The group of five has reached the top of Central. It’s odd up here, because at the end of a metal hallway is a small, wooden door. It looks like something you’d find on a house in an american suburbia, though it’s unpainted.

John is the first to reach the door. He lays his hand upon it in the dead silence of the narrow passage before twisting. As the door opens, John stands still, completely thrown. The flicker of struggling TV screens is the only thing that lights the room, and they seem to be mounted everywhere. The unstable light is distracting as hell.

He steps further into the large, circular room, but can’t see anything but the stands used to hold the screens up and the single, leather swivel chair. He can see that different scenes are taking place on the screens. In one, he can see the swingset that John had eventually walked through. In another, what seems to be Cyrus’ house. In a third is Sherlock apparently carrying out an experiment that would only make sense if this was wonderland.

“There’s no one here,” Magnus says, confusion and frustration and anger coloring his voice.

“No, there’s not,” John answers as he moves to the chair. It’s high-backed and well formed, soft and firm at the same time. He sits in it and turns to face the screens. As he does, the ends of the arms retract and a set of controllers rise in unison on either side of him.

He tries to press a button, but it doesn’t work. He tries a joystick on the right, and it still doesn’t work. It’s only as he feels the frustration roll through him that it dawns on him.

He can’t access the world outside himself. The challenge isn’t unseating whoever was here before him. The challenge is finding his own point of control. He feels something like despair grow in his chest. He was so sure that they could go back to their life, if they could only make it through the blasted tower, only to find that they can’t, because John doesn’t know how to regain control of his own mind.

He huffs an empty little laugh. Does this make him mad?

 

SHERLOCK

 

While both he and Donovan (for once) were right in thinking that Irene would be an ideal match to look after August while the woman regains her health in mind and body both, he still doesn’t quite want to make the call. After all, August was, in her mind, at least, lied to and manipulative, so it might not be the best idea. Still, these are desperate times, with one of the few people who Sherlock knows won’t gut him in his back down for the count. She’ll just have to get over it.

The decision come to once again, he picks up his phone. This is not something one simply texts about.

“Mm, I was hoping you’d call today,” Irene says. She’s probably rubbing her ankles together in anticipation of the conversation.

“Then you’re in luck. How do you feel about watching over August for a while?”

“How long is a while?”

“Until the discomfort of being near you is greater than any physical difficulties involved with living on her own and/or with someone who does not know about the nature of her injuries.”

“Come on, now. It wasn’t that bad. I made sure she enjoyed it.”

“Enjoyment is besides the point.”

“Is that how you see everything? No wonder you’re so tense. You should come and see me sometime. I could make it enjoyable for you, too.”

“That’s also besides the point. Will you or won’t you look after August as soon as I can get her released from the hospital?”

“I think I’d start with the gag. Or not, depending on how much I want to hear the sound of your voice. Tell me, have you ever been gagged with a tie? You never wear ties. I should like to see them make an appearance.”

“Answer the question.” Sherlock says, voice sharp and emotionless.

“Yes. Of course. I like her, you know. Even when bordering on suicidal, she’s a bright thing. Don’t you think?”

“Good. Yes. And no, I haven’t been gagged with a tie. Have you ever been hung with one?”

“No… but I’ve been strangled with rope before.”

“Good. Now imagine the effects of gravity should you have been hanging off a building when that strangling of yours happened. That’s what will happen to you if you so much as lay a single unwanted breath on August. No games. Of any kind.”

“You’re no fun, you know,” Irene says in lieu of acceptance, “But if that’s the way you have to have it, then fine. For me, she’s ruined for that sort of fun anyways.”

“Good. She should be ready in a week or so.” Sherlock says and then promptly presses the end button. He hadn’t meant to admit to the whole hanging thing. But, still, it was a good segway to the next part of that conversation.” Sherlock tosses the phone down onto the couch next to him and reclaims the laptop that had been sleeping on the other side. Time to get back to the business of waking John.

The SAC is informational, since only one person makes them. If Sherlock recalls correctly, that person is Mandragora Crane, a woman in her late sixties and a technical guru and secretly rich business magnate who does most of her work through proxies. Good thing Sherlock knows how to find people; he doesn’t do proxies not the first time around and certainly not now.

On Monday, he strolls through the door of a two story building. The mousy woman at the front counter looks up.

“What can I get you?”

“Your upstairs neighbor.”

“I don’t know her.”

“Yes you do. You regularly travel with her, and this shop you keep here is just a front so-” He abruptly stops talking as the gun the woman has had hidden centers on his forehead and the safety clicks off.

“Name.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” he says calmly. In retrospect, maybe a direct approach wasn’t a good idea.

“Profession?”

“Consulting detective, currently tracking a career criminal who recently used a SAC, of which Crane is the sole provider.”

“Sit down.” she says gesturing with a jerk of her head at one of the little coffee tables. Professional, this woman. The gun didn’t waver. The eyes didn’t leave Sherlock. The detective takes a seat. Another woman (this one younger, but Sherlock knows she’s just as lethal as the first.) appears after five minutes and sets a small cup of tea in front of him. It’s steaming, so either the water had already been boiled or this wasn’t made the proper way.

“Drink.”

“Will it kill me?” he says, staring at the first woman. He can see from her expression that not only is the answer no, it would be a point of pride to not murder through poison. Stupid, that.

“Drink,” the woman repeats. Sherlock lifts the cup to his mouth. The first taste is sweet to the point of sickening, as is the rest of it. He only gets a few swallows in before he’s too dizzy to take any more. Then, his head is gravitating towards the tabletop, and his eyes falling shut. He prays to the god he doesn’t believe in that he won’t wake up chained somewhere and have to devise an escape plan.

That would be a godawful waste of time.

 

…

 

Well, now his damn throat’s dry, but at least he’s where he needs to be. Sherlock blinks away the grainy feeling in his eyes as he sits up. The bed he’s on is thin and ill used. In fact, Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if this is the bed that everyone who goes looking for Mandragora wakes up in.

The room around him is bare, with nothing but the bed. The door, on closer look, locks from the outside. The wallpaper is an ugly paisley design, utterly bland in taste. There are no windows, and the ceiling is cheap popcorn.

There is a woman watching him. She’s tall and curvaceous, with a lot of curly, silver hair and a hook nose.

“Mandragora Crane.”

“You know, when I heard you downstairs, I could have sworn you were here for more than a career criminal with one of my machines. In fact, I’m going to go ahead and say that someone is suffering some ill effects because of it. Tell me: is it the coma or the hallucinations?” Right. He forgot how fucking irritating Mandragora can be.

“The coma,” he says, sitting up and swinging long legs over the side of the bed.

“And you want to know how to wake your friend up.”

“We’re not friends.”

“But you care about… her?”

“It’s not that I care. I just need information.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his elbows. “Of course, the coma makes it hard to, ah, get any information at all,” he explains.

“So you want to know how to wake her, which you can’t do without me because you don’t know how to without potentially frying his brain. Tell, me, how does it feel to be in a bind because you don’t know?” he hates this woman. But he needs her help.

“Like I have to use context clues. For instance,” here, he stands up, “I know who invented, patented, and sold the machine. I know that the one who used it is a career criminal. And I know that letting a SAC fall into the hands of just anyone is like building and selling a grenade to the average desk monkey the next flat down; the blame will fall partially on you if it blows up.” Sherlock smiles sweetly at her.

“You’ve gotten better,” Mandragora says with a contemplative nod.

“Have I, now? How about a prize? How do I wake John from his coma?” he sees a flash of surprise, and then:

“By taking him deeper into it, of course.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who've been reading this fic and Full Circle, you'll notice that the OC Mandragora is in both. They are the same character. I'm just trying to develop her.


	40. Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August goes to sleep, and so does John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I didn't want to write this. I really didn't. But it's written now, so thanks for your patience, enjoy, and let me know what you think.

John has taken to pacing. Right to left, down to up, in a circle, all the pacing ever done inside of a mind. He doesn’t destroy things like that. The room is peculiar, he’s learned. For one thing, it seems to be reactive to him, since the walls recede anytime he doesn’t want to turn, but the more they move, the tighter his skin feels. 

For another, the screens work. He was sitting in the chair (for once), thinking about the real Sherlock, when one of the screens in front of him flickered to life. It took him a minute to understand that the hazy quality of the image had to do with his state of consciousness, and that the face above his, barely in focus at all, except for the eyes, was Sherlock’s. It was the second time he woke up, displayed because the thought had crossed his mind.

So the room works, and apparently the chair does too, but the controls don’t. What bullshit. He collapses back into said seat and heaves out a sigh.

“He’ll figure it out.” Cyrus says, coming to lean against the leather.

“He?”

“Sherlock,” he clarifies.

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then the mind’s as vast as your strength, and we can wander it to your hearts content.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be content.” John says. Cyrus gives a thin smile.

“Welcome to my world.” John feels an odd, quick vibration. He glances down and notices that the controls are rising, now glowing. 

“Ooh, told you so,” Cyrus says, grinning. John takes ahold of the joystick again, only to find himself… not displaced, he thinks, but certainly not where he was at, either. He thinks about the smooth, black plastic joystick he had his hand on just a moment ago, but realized that it’s been changed with him.

Huh.

He thinks about what the joystick would be used to do, and realizes that the light has shifted. Light. He takes a second look at the scene in front of him and realizes exactly where he is. He’s in a narrow hallway, standing in front of a clear glass doorway. On the other side is a single, giant screen, divided a hundred different ways by different scenes. He can see himself in one small square, Cyrus shaking him by the shoulders. 

Mind-Sherlock wanders through Vincent’s portion of John’s mind. Vincent himself is with him, asking him things about August. Magnus is going stir-crazy in his corner of an ever extending mind, beating his head against a wall. It occurs to John that neither skull nor wall exist without his belief. In fact, no one has this much power without John believing they do. He had always considered his other personalities to be humans stuck in the same car as he is, and that, just because John has the key and the steering wheel does not mean he needs to treat them as lesser. As such, he has always seen part of his mind theirs. If he were to stop seeing it like that, if he were to see his whole mind as his, then he could drastically reduce their ability to do anything.

So if even the personalities have less ability than John thinks, what is this room to tell him to stay? What is this door to hold him back? This is mind. Is he not the master of it? Is he not the one in control? The one that can reclaim control like a dropped marble, moving but obtainable? The door disappears, lock, frame and all. 

He steps through and into this odd… screen, and he feels surrounded, suffocating and getting too much air at the same time. He reminds himself that he’s a figment of his imagination, and he doesn’t need the fucking air. The surrounded feeling turns calmer, safer, better. He reaches out, chest no longer moving, and touches an image of Vincent’s childhood.

Then the world goes dark.

 

IRENE

 

She’s quiet, and deathly so. Irene gets the feeling that August is not afraid to gut her, should she feel the need. She’s sitting in the window, now, soaking up sunshine like she’ll never get again. Her hair slightly damp from her shower and shiny from the oil and brushing. 

Black slacks and a grey dress shirt is her outfit of choice, and there’s a blanket thrown across her lap. Her hands, resting on top of it, are too thin. Irene leaves the doorway, giving off a soft, low hum in her throat. August’s eyes open. 

The face that turns to watch her is not the one she’d looked at in bed. Dark eyes are no longer sad and impassioned with the heat of the moment, but cold and unreadable. Irene has no doubt that the fire is still there, though, smouldering out of sight, like the rest of her emotions. Her jaw and cheeks are too sharp, her body too still, not even her chest moves with breath as much as it used to.

“Adler,” she says. She won’t say Irene’s first name. Then again, Irene’s not sure she’d say her first name either. 

“August. Are you hungry?” It’s twelve in the morning. There’s nothing wrong with being hungry. The problem is that August hates to be weak, and needing help getting her own food is as weak as it gets. She shrugs one shoulder, still watching. Her gaze is much more direct, as though she wants Irene to know she’s being watched, and she will be stabbed without any hesitation. 

Irene can see from the shape of the blanket that she’s got a sketchbook under that blanket. She considers just leaving and sending Kate up with food, but she won’t. The thing about being a Dominatrix is that you get a lot of practice reading what people won’t say. She glances at the window seat. There’s more then enough room on it.

Slowly, carefully, she takes a seat opposite of her guest and watches the garden below it. There’s a rabbit out there, crouched on a bench. Irene would like to go pet it.. Maybe she will find it at a decent hour. For now, she looks back at August, who still has those haunting eyes with the dark circles on her.

“August,” she says softly as she reaches out, fingertips just barely brushing a sharp shoulder. She didn’t think August could get anymore frozen, but she does.

“Why don’t you sleep?” That full mouth opens a moment, but closes again. Those eyes break and looks back at the frozen dark, silver under the full moon. She falls still, but doesn’t shake Irene’s hand.

“Come on, love. You’re through the worst of it. Let me help you through the rest.” August looks down at her lap. Her hand slips underneath the blanket to grip the sketchbook.

“I don’t know what’s real. And what’s not.” Moriarty’s prime method of torture had simply been getting August too high and keeping her in a nightmare realm, regardless of what else was going on. The only things that August knows actually happened are what left scars. 

“I know.” Slowly, Irene leans forwards and hugs her. After a few moments of stiff silence, and August is melting slightly into the embrace, tension bleeding away until she’s just sitting there, drained. 

“What if I stayed with you?”

“Like… all night?” It sounds like she’s doubting the good in the idea, but Irene knows that she’s doubting if Irene means it.

“Yes, love.” A small nod, and then August is pulling back, gripping the black cane she keeps with her now, and levers herself up. As much as Irene is tempted to help, August feeling helpless is a bad idea just now. 

The walk down the hall is slow, as is the disproportionately large amount of effort it takes for August to change her clothes, even with Irene’s help. Eventually, though, August is dressed in a tee shirt and a pair of grey nike pants, which swishes when she moves. Irene had them taken from August’s apartment, as there’s nothing more irritating than not having familiar clothes.

August has bandages from her upper arms, to all the way down her back to her legs and bruises and minor scrapes everywhere else. It’s made her selfconscious. Together, they slide beneath the covers, and Irene, after letting August settle, moves so that she’s pressed against her back, her own silk pajamas doing nothing to hide the shape of her.

“Is this alright?” she asks as she settles an arm over August’s waist.

“Yeah,” comes the quiet answer. Eventually, the last of the tension leaves August’s body, sleep stealing away all her pain. She’ll be awake in a few hours over a nightmare, but she’s asleep now, and Irene’s got her. 

She never thought she’d want to do anything but bang the artist in front of her but, oh, how things change.


	41. Interlude: Important Update

In almost all of my stories, what you actually see is not what all there actually is. Which is why I'm doing this. Here is my tumblr (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ambiguousrabbitsclock), which will be an AO3 feed for all my fics. If you have a prompt, an alternate event, a question, or any other thing that just won't make it into a finished piece, feel free to ask me for it there. 

-White Rabbit's Clock

P.S. Sorry for the false chapter


	42. Clever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August shares what she knows. John gets to return to his normalcy.

August’s hands and feet are cold, despite the warm, fluffy blanket that’d been lent to her. She doesn’t bother to fix it, all focus on the page in front of her, staring at a pair of charcoal-rendered, dark eyes. 

 

…

 

The first thing John becomes aware of is beeping. Not the pleasant kind, but the hospital kind. The sterile smell hits him next. Then the thin hospital blanket, and, finally, whether or not the mattress he’s on is, in fact, too firm or not beneath him.

“Hullo, John.” Sherlock says from where he busily does Sherlock-y things on his tablet. 

“Hmm,” he rasps.

“I was beginning to wonder if I’d been played or not,” Sherlock says as John opens his eyes and looks around his room.

“Played?”

“By Mandragora. Inventor and seller of SACs, which is what you were in, under an induced coma.”

“Oh,” he says, deciding to keep his escapades in his own mind. Then, he remembers, fuzzily, a gun shot, a razor sharp line of pain, stumbling. 

“August?”

“Injured and being kept by a friend of mine.” John turns his head away, looking in the opposite direction.

“Hospital.”

“Yeah. Do you hate it yet?”

“Yeah. Can we go home?” Sherlock gives a small, private smile and stands. Time to go.

 

…

 

Two days later, and John is relieved that his personalities are still there, though they’ve chosen until now to make their presence known.

_ It’s you who had the epiphany that none of us have any real power directly before accessing your own body again _ , Vincent says, sounding slightly petulant.

“So sorry. I meant to have that the day before. Guess time got away from me,” John fires back. Sherlock gives him a glance, but otherwise ignores him.

**Tell him to stop keeping his distance** , Cyrus says, making his own appearance. John looks over at Sherlock, then ignores the remark.

**Come on** , he says, drawing the vowel out,  **he looks at you like I look at him.**

“Shut up,” John says as he takes another sip of his tea. He is immensely glad of the normalcy of this conversation. Now, if only he knew that Magnus was okay.

I am never not okay. It is what you need me for . Speaking of.

“Don’t be dramatic.”

**Please** , Cyrus tries again. John gets a feeling like someone’s scratching him, only inside.

Stop that. He’s never done this before , Magnus orders. The scratching stops.

_ Besides, he isn’t even gay like that _ , Vincent says, sounding oddly satisfied with the fact.

**You’re just saying that because you want to bang August** . 

_ I’m saying that because it’s true _ .

**You’re saying that because you want to see what August feels like** .

“Enough,” John says, at the same time Marcus does.

They will not stop until you have made your move.

And what do you think, Magnus?

The term is demisexual, and he doesn’t have that connection with August, and it’s quite shaky with Sherlock, so quit your incessant whining over your non-sex lives . Magnus says. It seems to settle the argument. John sighs, the tightness that had been stealing over his mind relaxing.

“What were they arguing about?” Sherlock says after a moment of unnoticed eye contact.

“Nothing,” John says, quite done with the whole thing. He closes his eyes, takes another drink of his tea, and enjoys the silence.

**I say he screws Sherlock first,** Cyrus says, mischievously. 

“What part of enough went over your bloody head?” the silence seems final, this time around. Just now, Sherlock’s phone rings. He snaps it up and presses it to his ear.

“Yeah. No, we’re ready. John!” he says, setting the phone down.

“Yeah?”

“Make tea. We’ve got company.” John rises and goes to get the kettle out.

Fifteen minutes later, just as the pot begins to scream, the door downstairs opens.

“Sherlock! Company!”

“I know, Miss Hudson!” Sherlock hollers back, shoving a hand through his hair as he disappears into the hall. Distantly, John hears:

“Yes, but he’s not- calm down. He’s fine. He’s as he was before. No, I think he has too strong a hold, now. You’re being dramatic.” He hears a teasing voice next.

“I’ve never seen you so nervous.”

“I’m not, I’d just rather avoid the whole panic attack thing. I hear it’s not good for the health.” Just as John’s starting to get worried, he hears the heavy taps of a cane. If he thought grief had robbed August before, whatever had occurred in his absence has truly put her through the ringer, if that cane is anything to go by.

Keep your distance, Magnus observes. With a nod, John steps into the kitchen to collect four steeping cups of tea. He waits until they settle August on the couch (which is actually everyone just standing around in tense silence) before handing her cup to Irene, then Sherlock’s cup to him, and finally, Irene’s cup to her. He eyes the hardback sketchbook August has clutched tightly in her hands. 

There’s an abrasion on two of the knuckles.

He sits in his chair with dreaded silence as August looks down at the book, then back up at Sherlock. She had intense eyes before the fact, but now she looks utterly dangerous, and damn near mesmerizing.

“I don’t know what’s real, but…” After falling silent, she shakes her head and opens her hands, holding out the sketchbook. Sherlock takes the book.

“Third page.” August says.

On the first page is an upside down room. The second page is a dark place that looks cold, even in charcoal, and is viewed from behind square wire mesh. Then, on the third age, is the face. Pale skin, dark eyes and hair, thin mouth, dark circles under the eyes… gazing out at the world. The look is… partially seductive, partially dangerous. Sherlock looks at August.

Her head is up, but she looks away when he meets her eyes.

“This is him,” he says, not a question. He turns the page, and sees his full figure. He’s quite small, in a dark, distinctive suit. August holds out her hand, and Sherlock returns the book.

“His name is Jim,” she says, after she’s pressed the tips of her fingers hard against the black cover. Sherlock can’t help but notice that Irene has wrapped an arm around August, and that the artist doesn’t seem to mind. He exhales.

How very clever, really, to give your face to your torture victim, and the invalidate it, because she was high. He suddenly gets an idea. 

Very clever, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	43. Virus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's Coup de Grace.

The rain is hot and heavy, the day humid, the mood in 221B Baker street sour. Sherlock plays Beethoven’s Für Elise in a mournful, slow tempo. A cup of tea sits half empty and too cold to drink on a saucer behind him. John sits, unaware of his surroundings, entirely caught up in his headmates’ company. 

August sits drawing, waiting for Sherlock to make his move, and Irene watches the careful, masterful lines of her work form a girl with large triangular ears and a fluffy tail. It’s a very old character, created some seventeen years ago. Sherlock drew it once with bold, dark lines; a perfect parody of August’s own style.

They won’t be able to catch him. Not like this. They can track down and detain as many people as they want, but they will never truly rid the world of Jim Moriarty. He is as close to an immortal as it gets. So they’ll have to do it a different way. 

Moriarty is immortal because he can store himself inside computer systems until there is another body available for downloading, which means that he gets his longevity from code. In order to truly kill Moriarty, every single one of his personalities must be killed all at once. No mistakes. No survivors. 

The problem is that they don’t know where everyone is. Doubtlessly, he has his personality backed up in more than one location, on more than one system. Doubtlessly, he’s got sleeper agents, just walking around with sleeping versions of the personality. Doubtlessly, he’s got  personalities on and off the web, in and out of the country.

There is no end to where Jim Moriarty could be, which means that there must be no end to where Sherlock can reach, and it must do so all at once. Which means this: he needs a virus, one specifically targeted at Jim’s personality, which he has a latent copy of sitting in John’s head, and a way to distribute it, which he also has, thanks to Mycroft’s influence. There’s just one problem, of course.

You can’t just target one personality. 

Certain aspects of Moriarty’s coding will be shared by John and John’s headmates, by Victor, possibly by August and, depending on how deeply Moriarty tampered with her mind, and Sherlock, too. So now Sherlock has an ultimatum.

He can kill the greatest criminal the world has ever known and possibly kill and/or himself and John and August and Victor and John’s headmates, or he can not, and spend the rest of their lives being played with by a mastermind that will live long after the fact. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. 

Never in his life did he think this would be how everything went down. With a nod to himself, Sherlock puts down the violin and opens his tablet. In five minutes, he is so immersed in his task that not even touch can pull him out of it.

 

…

 

“Are you sure about this?” Mycroft asks as the two of them sit in the back of a limousine. Sherlock nods.

“I’m sure, but before you do the deed, I want to say thank you.” Sherlock says, hands together in his lap. The games of their youth have fallen away; Sherlock could very well be dead by tomorrow. Now is only the time for truth.

Mycroft nods, and the two sit in silence that is, for the first time in a long time, comfortable. 

“Do you remember redbeard?” Mycroft asks. 

“Yes.”

Redbeard was the first thing he ever loved. He’s just been trying to get that feeling back ever since, but he couldn’t.

Firstly, he couldn’t replace his peace of mind and the light he’d been born into with getting used to the silence and the porcelain of his world.

Secondly, he couldn’t replace Mycroft and Redbeard with a puppy.

Thirdly, he couldn’t replace Victor and the happiness he’d found with reality.

Fourthly, he couldn’t replace the solidity of his work with the possibility of the happiness that he’d never been able to keep.

But oh, had he tried.

The unscarred-ness of his early years with redbeard.

His happiness with Mycroft’s quiet understanding.

Them with silence.

Silence with drugs.

Drugs with Victor and, to a degree, Miles and August.

Them with more drugs, street fights, distractions of hunger and pain.

That with the Work.

And the Work is the last thing he may ever do. 

He feels he’s lived a hundred years in twenty eight.

Sitting here knowing that he may very well die from the greatest piece of work he’d ever done, he finds his peace of mind. For the first time in a long time, he’s just… okay.

 

…

 

Mycroft stands behind a team of technicians, ready anxious for the end of a long ride that lasted hardly any time at all.

At a final nod, every satellite around the world, every search engine and major site on the internet, and every piece of tech with an internet connection is hit with a virus. Along with this, every speaker around the world broadcasts a frequency so low it’s unheard. 

Around the world, four hundred and twenty six people collapse spontaneously, among the count is Sherlock, August, and John. Of these, fourteen die. The rest are rushed to hospitals if they’re seen and frantically searched for if they’re not. Three die due to not being found, lacking both a caring eye or mind. Twenty seven are immediately killed by accident- falling in front of cars, on railroad tracks, off ledges, etc. One hundred and nineteen hit their heads hard enough to get a concussion. Thirty two break a bone or two. 

Thirty seven computers shut down and do not power back up again. Google and Bing and scores of weaker sites across the globe crash. Eight thousand tablets, nine thousand laptops, and eight phones shut down and restart spontaneously. The world is thrown into momentary panic as bodies are pulled from the streets, stock markets all around the world come to an hour long stand still, and google can’t process questions. 

Through it all, Mycroft stands behind the technicians, praying for the first in a long time to a god he doesn’t believe in that Sherlock knew what he was doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm laughing at everyone of you who have stuck with me through all forty+ chapters and applauding you at the same time. Let me know what you think.


	44. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They only see each other when someone is dead, dying, or endangered.

They only seem to see each other when someone is dead, dying, or endangered. Which is why, when Irene dies during a “home break-in” officially and a “home interrogation” unofficially, and August receives an invitation to the funeral of one of the the only… friends, she decides, to know the full truth of things, Sherlock is at the door to her hotel the morning of.

The door is answered by a dark skinned, broad-nosed, dread-locked woman with a lot of curves and a lot of brains. This surprises him, because he can tell that the woman he knows and the one he doesn’t are married, and this is news. Nevertheless, he holds up a small bottle of pills.

“If her leg’s still locked, these should help, miss…”

“Thomas. Jasmine Thomas.” The woman says, stepping out into the hall and clasping one hand with Sherlock, and retrieving the pills with the other.

“What is it?”

“I’m a chemist. This is the most effective thing I could come up with.” He refrains from deducing her- she’s mildly jealous that someone could do for August so flawlessly as to have it ready without request, and very protective. Chemist? Sherlock doesn’t look like it. In a charcoal black suit and combed back hair, with John headed down the hall at that very moment in his own suit, he looks like someone August would have fucked, once upon a time. 

Then she catches sight of the glinting silver ring on Sherlock’s ring finger, and jealousy turns tail. There is no competition, now. 

“What’s your name?” she says, busty body still blocking the door. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” Jasmine blinks.

“Oh. Well, in that case, come on in. There’s coffee if you want it.” Jasmine says as she moves away from the door. She’d been told, in very brief detail, of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson when August had explained the reason for the scars.

He is a man to be trusted on the morning of this woman’s funeral.

Besides, according to August, this wouldn’t be the first time.

Sherlock, John, and Irene made a detour to America three years after they parted ways, because August had gotten married, and, in the process, gain a seventeen year old stepson. Nine months after the fact, August and Alister Ford had watched the premier of the Incredibles II, and were gunned down outside the theatre. 

August went to the hospital, Alister to the grave. The next morning, August’s leg was so locked up, the stepson, James, had to help her.

By that time, Sherlock and John were in a relationship approaching it’s one-year anniversary, and August had risen to fame as Time’s  _ The Creative Genius _ and People’s  _ Hollywood’s Favorite Mystery _ . She seems to have extreme circumstances around the clock.

August was in England the day Lestrade got married to Mycroft, and again when he was killed responding to the report of a body, two years ago. She’d met Jasmine by then, and Sherlock was a lot calmer than he was when August first met him.

Now, here they were again, two married couples on the way to a funeral they’d always known would happen.

The day was bright outside as they stepped out of the car Mycroft had sent around.

“It’s cold as Satan’s balls,” August comments as she accepts the first cigarette in some five years or so. She only smoked at tragedies and when her mental state got too scattered to control (that happened sometimes, too. She’s been institutionalized twice, and will probably always need a therapist).

“That it is,” Sherlock says as he lights both his and her’s. They stand smoking outside the car for a few moments as Jasmine draws away with a nod and John without one.

“You think I’ll get to keep her?”

“Don’t know,” Sherlock says as a pale plume of smoke rises above his head to join the frost. “But I hope so.” August sets out across the dead January grass, leg stronger than ever, but never well enough to walk without a limp. 

“I won’t make it if I lose her.”

“No, I don’t suppose you will.” Sherlock says as he takes long, slow steps that keep pace with August’s. The two are old enough to have silver (August) and grey (Sherlock) in their. The two of them are too old to be losing people like this, now.

So here’s hoping neither of them do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look guys! We got to the Johnlock booty! Or Sherlock got the booty, actually, but yeah! Thanks for sticking with me. Let me know how you liked if convenient. If inconvenient, do it anyways. *Wink wink*.  
> What do you guys think of a vampirelock? Just a thought. I could probably but minotaurs in that one, and you know how I love minotaurs.


End file.
